Empty Nest (14 page)

I left the Hall the next morning in a mist, but by the time I parked on the high street, it had bulked up into a heavy drizzle. I pulled up the hood on my coat and wished I had put on another layer—something thick and woolly. A dim, dull, cold, wet day.

When I had a moment, I would ring DS Glossop about the possibility Addleton and Freddy met at the Royal Oak the evening that Freddy died. If I offered the sergeant information, perhaps he would repay me with anything he knew and why the police needed to speak to Cecil again. Freddy's death had direct impact on everyone around me. Linus was upset, Cecil under suspicion, Sheila and Thorne secretive, and my dad an expert witness. I had the impression the DS would be more amenable to such an exchange than his DI. I didn't like that frosty look of Callow's.

“Julia.”

Gavin stood near the postbox across the road from the TIC, well protected in waterproof trousers and jacket.

“Hello, Gavin, come in out of this weather,” I said, unlocking the door and stepping inside. I went back, switched on the kettle, and shook myself out of my wet coat. “What are you doing back here so soon?”

Gavin grinned. “Pied wheatear, Julia—can you believe it? It's been seen round the clunch pit near Orwell, still there this morning.” He looked at me with hope.

A rocky area the other side of Cambridge—not the ends of the earth, but still, not where I should be today. “Gavin, it's a work day for me. I can't just leave.”

His face fell. “Oh, yeah, sure. It's only—I thought if you had an hour or two we might be able to nip over. But I understand.” He turned his head away—his single kestrel earring swaying slightly. He squinted out the front window as if trying to focus on some distant object—which I knew he couldn't. He couldn't see distance because of that concussion he'd had.

“Is it rare, this pied wheatear?”

He didn't look at me, only shrugged one shoulder. “Well, you might see the odd one in the summer, but this time of year…”

The bell jingled and Vesta walked in, lifting her rain hat off without disturbing a hair. “Hello, Gavin. What brings you to the village?”

Gavin gave me a sharp look—a reminder, I knew, to keep his poor eyesight a secret. “Gavin's heard tell of a pied wheatear over near Orwell. It's quite rare. He had hoped I could see it, too, but of course, I'm sorry to say that I can't.” Given the state of the weather, I wasn't all that sorry.

“Of course you can,” Vesta said, and I caught a hint of mischief in the look she gave me. “I'm fine here on my own this morning. You go find your bird, if you'd like.”

I thought her a bit eager to get me out the door on a Saturday. Did she think I wanted to go? “I'm not dressed for it,” I said, holding my arms open to better show off my uniform—pencil skirt, blouse, cardy; I hadn't changed into my heels yet, and still wore my trainers.

“I've an extra set of waterproofs in the car,” Gavin said. “You're welcome to them.”

From where I stood, I had a perfect view of Gavin's scar—the deciding factor. “Oh, all right, then. But I can only manage a couple of hours. I've a great deal to do today.”

Gavin grinned. “I'll fetch the gear.” He dashed out the door.

“Vesta, really, I don't have to go,” I said. “Just say the word.”

“It's your decision, Julia. Do you want to go, that's the question.”

“I suppose. Yes. You know, he probably shouldn't be out there on his own.”
Unable to see,
I thought but couldn't say.

Not quite on the moors, and certainly not in the middle of nowhere. The clunch pit sat just behind St. Andrew's church in the village of Orwell, just on the other side of Cambridge. I insisted on driving, and Gavin spent the journey telling the story of a glossy ibis he'd once waited overnight to catch a glimpse of. I peered out the window. I didn't know how we were to see a bird in this weather. I cranked up the heat. I'd had to remove my skirt to pull on the waterproof trousers, and I couldn't get warm.

We pulled into the church's car park and Gavin had me stop next to a Honda Jazz with one fellow in it looking at his phone. Gavin lowered his window, as did the other man, and without introduction Gavin asked, “Still there?”

“Yeah, near a patch of gorse on the west side.”

We prepared to get out. “Do you know him?” I asked.

“Nah,” Gavin said.

“Do you have some sort of secret Masonic sign—is that how you recognize each other?”

“I can't say how exactly, it's only we do. We know what we're after,” Gavin said, cutting his eyes at me. I'd seen that sly smile before, the one he reserved for birds of one sort or another.

We made our way round the edge of the pit, which had ceased being mined for clunch, a chalky, limestone rock, and now had grass growing over it. Probably wildflowers, too. Would be a lovely place in spring.

Tights and one layer of waterproofs were not enough protection in early November. As soon as we settled on a flat rock, I began to shiver. Mum, Bianca, and I had been fair-weather birdwatchers, requiring a fine day for our outings. We were more than willing to spend an hour or two scanning the trees and meadows for a cuckoo or a great spotted woodpecker—nothing too exotic—as long as it was followed by a good picnic and a nap. We left the true birding to my dad.

The drizzle grew into rain. I stuck my hands in my pockets and attempted to hold my head perfectly level, because if I tilted it forward or backward, the water dripped off the brim of my hat and trickled down my back. I squinted into the brush and along the ground in search of the pied wheatear. Time passed. We heard nothing. I saw nothing. My nose ran. I dwelt on all of the things I should be doing instead of trying to see a bird for a bloke who couldn't but wanted to.

Gavin put his arm round me and I flinched.

“You're cold, I'm only trying to help—I mean nothing by it,” he said in an injured tone.

“Right, sorry.”

“You having a good time?” he asked.

I didn't think I could feel my toes. “Yeah, great.”

When two other twitchers appeared with telescopic lenses, Gavin struck up a conversation, and I excused myself on an urgent errand—no loos about, so I knew they'd assume I needed some privacy. I got back in the car, started it, turned the heater up to broil, and blew my nose. I pulled out my phone and rang DS Glossop.

“Sergeant, hello, it's Julia Lanchester. I'm disturbing you on your weekend,” I said, hoping to sound as if I were truly sorry.

“We've an open investigation, Ms. Lanchester—I cannot be off duty,” he replied, and I could almost see him straighten his jacket and sit at attention.

“So you've spoken to Rupert—I'm just following up on that for him. You've established that the poison used on the birds was the same as used on Freddy?”

“Those toxicology reports take donkey's years,” Glossop complained. “But Rupert's promised to give us a rundown on symptoms and dosage and the like.”

“But where did the poison come from, Sergeant?” I asked in a confidential, speculative tone. “Hard to believe it would just be lying about someone's garden shed.”

“We're starting a search on Monday—Inspector Callow's orders,” Glossop said. I could hear the eagerness in his voice.

I thought about the sergeant's statement as I peered out the window checking on any sign of Gavin or the other twitchers. A search of the estate—how big a force would the police have? A couple of PCs and Glossop, most likely. It would take them a month to go through all the properties.

“Sergeant,” I said, sliding deftly onto a related topic, “I hope you've realized by now that Cecil had nothing to do with this—it's only that he was a friend of the victim. And remember, Cecil was out with a friend that evening.”

“So he says. Out with a friend? Out with what friend, that's what we'd like to know.”

Wouldn't we all? “I know Lord Fotheringill is eager to have the matter settled.”

Of course, I knew nothing of the kind, and I had my own suspicions about Cecil's guilt. But I had seen the pain in Linus's eyes as he thought his son capable of murder, and so I would take this stand not for Cecil, but for Linus.

“Lord Fotheringill can't smooth over every problem for his son. Irregularities at the Auction Rooms, due to Mr. Fotheringill's miscalculations. Seems that Mr. Peacock might have been…taking advantage of that.”

“Blackmail?” I whispered.

“Not a bad motive for murder.”

Freddy had blackmailed Cecil about something, and finally Cecil snapped.

Time to offer my side of the barter.

“Sergeant, did you know that Freddy and Mr. Addleton might have met at the Royal Oak on the evening Freddy died?”

I heard the flipping of papers and imagined Glossop checking his notebook. “Are you saying they knew each other?” he asked.

At once, I felt I'd overstepped. “No, I don't know that. I know they were both at the Royal Oak that evening, but I'm not sure if they talked or were actually at the pub at the same time.” I related what sketchy details I'd been able to extract from Hutch and kept myself from embellishing.

“I'll get back to Mr. Addleton on that,” the sergeant said.

“And Freddy's background?” I asked. “Friends, business associates, relationships…the woman in the red sports car?”

“We've spoken to most, and apart from her—she shed a tear or two—not a one of them were all that broken up about Mr. Peacock's death. Trouble is, none of them was anywhere near the estate the day of or the day before.”

“The fingerprints, Sergeant. I don't suppose those have helped at all?”

“The key was wiped clean. In the room, we found yours, the butler's, his Lordship's, his son's, Mrs. Bugg's—we've still to check her son. Adam Bugg. What about him?”

“What about
Adam
? How in the world could he be involved? He doesn't even live at the Hall.”

“But he does have strong ties, doesn't he? Grew up there, close friend to Mr. Fotheringill.” How did everyone know that before me? “You'd be surprised what loyalty can cause people to do.” I heard him suck in his breath. “Sorry, Ms. Lanchester, I must go.” Apparently, he'd overstepped his own bounds, and my fount of information had run dry.

A text arrived from Linus. “I need to talk with you.” Short, to the point, but I read worry into his words. I had no chance to ring him, however, because Gavin knocked on the window and got into the car, bringing a bone-chilling cold with him.

“You missed him, Julia—there he was in the gorse.” He held out his phone, and I saw a photo of a small, brown, undistinguished bird.

I smiled at his enthusiasm, as I pulled out of the church car park. “And you could see him? Do you think your vision is improving?”

Gavin looked out the window, blinking and squinting. “No,” he said, “he was right in front of me. Couldn't have missed him. If he'd've been further away…”

I heard a touch of sadness in his voice. “Ah well,” I said. “Doesn't mean it won't.” But what if it didn't?

The TIC glowed with an inviting warmth. Although the rain had let up, I remained chilled to the bone and couldn't wait to get inside. As we pulled up, I could see Vesta unfolding leaflets as she talked with two visitors.

When we got out of the car, I noticed Michael standing outside in the shelter of the door. My afternoon had just improved a hundredfold.

“Hello,” I said. “I didn't know you were stopping.”

Michael's eyes shifted from me to Gavin, who leaned against my car and crossed his arms. “Sedgwick,” he said, and nodded.

“I didn't realize you'd be away,” Michael said to me.

“Gavin wanted me to”—I glanced over and saw a flash of fear on Gavin's face—“see a bird. A pied wheatear. Rare—it was over near Orwell.”

“Well, Julia,” Gavin said, “I'll be on my way. Don't bother getting out of those now”—he nodded to the waterproofs I wore—“at least not here in the road where everyone could see you're not wearing much under them. I'll collect them next time I see you.”

“Yes, funny, Gavin. All right—drive carefully, will you? You know what I mean.”

A frown flashed on his face and disappeared. “Right.”

As he walked away, I pulled Michael inside as the two customers left.

“Hello, Vesta, I'm in desperate need of a cup of tea. I'll just nip into the loo and change.”

“His Lordship rang for you,” Vesta said as I closed the door.

“Right,” I called out. “He sent a text, too. I'll ring him back.”

In the toilet, I dropped the waterproofs and yanked off my trainers, which were soaked through. I wiggled into my skirt and went out, carrying my heels so that the feet of my tights could dry out. Vesta had left.

“She said she was going for sandwiches,” Michael said, toying with a brochure left on the counter.

“You'll stay?”

He shrugged. “You and Lecky have been out birdwatching?” he asked. “I didn't think twitching was your thing.”

“It isn't, you know that. He asked, because…” I stopped. Could I say why?

“Because…” Michael prompted. When I didn't answer, he asked, “Nice time, was it?”

I could not escape noticing the cool tone in his voice. I'd had a miserable time. “Yeah, it was all right.”

“And that's all it was—going off to see a bird?”

I dropped my shoes on the floor. “Yes, that's all it was. Why? Are you saying you don't trust me?” My voice echoed off the walls.

“I trust
you,
Julia,” Michael said with as much force but less volume. “It's Lecky I'm not too sure of.”

“He isn't trying anything underhanded, it's only that he can't…”
Say it, Julia.
But I couldn't. I choked. Surely Gavin didn't mean for me to keep the secret from Michael. We were a couple, and a secret told to one was told to both; those were the rules, everyone knew that. And I had put up quite a fuss with Michael early on about telling the truth. If we were a couple, then I should tell Michael about Gavin's vision problems.

“It's only that he wanted me to see the pied wheatear. And I wanted to see it, too. That's all—there's nothing to it.”

“Oh, there's something to it, all right,” he said, his icy blue eyes noticeable even from across the room. “Something about you and Lecky that you don't want to tell me.” Michael pulled his coat collar up and walked to the door. “And that's fine. That's just fine.”

My face felt hot. I wanted to take back what I had said and say what I should've. I saw myself on the brink of some sort of commitment—a bright light calling to me from the end of a dark tunnel—but it frightened me. I'd got it wrong so many times before. And so I stayed in the dark.

“If you don't believe me, I don't know what I can do.” I hated the self-righteous tone in my voice.

At the door, he met Vesta; she held three packaged sandwiches. The room was heavy with anger, but Vesta smiled through it. “Michael, your choice—coronation chicken or ham and cheese.”

Michael stuck his hands in his pockets. “Sorry, Vesta, I can't stay. See you.” He gave me a quick glance and walked out.

“See you?”
I shouted, but only after the door jingled closed. “See you? That's all I get?”

Vesta came through to the back and set the sandwiches on the table.

“Michael had been here an hour before you returned,” she said. “He asked where you'd gone and I told him.”

I sank into a chair, bewildered at what had just happened. “It was only a bird.” I pulled one of the sandwiches over, ripped open the package, and took a halfhearted bite.

“Was it?” Vesta asked, seeing into my soul as usual. “I don't suppose Michael was thrilled to see you with Gavin, but I'm sure he'll get over it. Perhaps he'll ring later.”

“Yes, perhaps he will,” I said with little conviction. Vesta reached across the table and squeezed my hand.

“It's a bump in the road, Julia—whatever it was happened between you and Michael.”

“I don't do bumps—but I'm an expert at roadblocks.”

“Relationships need tending,” she replied, doing a fine job of channeling my sister, who had told me the same thing more than once. A lump like a heavy stone sat in my stomach. I'd been here before, too afraid to go on.

“The difference between you and me, Vesta, is that you've had a successful relationship, and so you know you can do it again. I'm divorced, and since then I haven't had a relationship that's lasted more than a…” I almost said “weekend,” but knew how shallow it sounded.

I wrapped my hands round my mug of tea but couldn't absorb any of its warmth. Vesta ate her sandwich and browsed a magazine, trying not to look at me too often. I took another bite, but chewing seemed to demand more energy than I had, and when the bell above the door jingled, I leapt up.

“You sit,” Vesta said, “finish your lunch.”

“No,” I whispered, “let me. I've done nothing all day.” And I needed to take my mind off it.

Two ramblers waited at the counter and occupied the next half hour of my time. They were students at Cambridge. They asked me about possible evidence of a first-century Iceni dwelling on the estate, and while we chatted, the phone rang and Vesta answered.

“His Lordship again,” Vesta said after the students of ancient history had gone. “I told him you wouldn't mind if I interrupted, but he said not to, that he would see you later—perhaps before dinner. Whatever it is, he sounded quite concerned.”

“I'm afraid it's Cecil: the police wanted to talk with him at the station about Freddy. Something about a business problem at the Auction Rooms.”

“Finish your sandwich, and you can tell me about it.”

I looked at my coronation chicken, barely a bite or two taken. I picked it up and put it back down. “I don't think I want it,” I said. “I'm not very hungry.”

Vesta raised an eyebrow at this but made no comment.

“The funny thing is,” I said, shifting my mind to something I could do nothing about, “I thought that Cecil and Adam were at odds, because of Cecil paying so much attention to Louisa.”

“Cecil and Louisa?” Vesta asked. “It didn't look it on Cider Day—it was Freddy couldn't keep away from her. Adam took great exception to that.”

I'd missed most of the day at the orchard while taking care of dead sparrow hawks. “What happened?” I asked.

“I can only tell you what I saw—dark looks from Adam and sly smiles from Mr. Peacock. Louisa seemed quite embarrassed. I heard harsh words between the two men inside the cider house, and Cecil stepped in and called Adam off. Good thing they didn't come to blows.”

They might not have come to blows on Cider Day, but what about later? Did they come to blows Monday evening?

“Freddy didn't seem the type to spend a day in the orchard,” I said. “What did he do, try to price the antique press?”

Vesta nodded. “Could fetch a thousand pounds on the right day at auction, apparently.”

Vesta and I spent the remainder of the afternoon on busywork. I emailed the firm that would provide the marquees for the market and ordered jackets for our rowdy boys-cum-dustmen that read: “Smeaton-under-Lyme Official Collections Unit.” I tried not to look as if I were keeping an eye on my phone, waiting for a text from Michael.

“You could ring him, you know,” Vesta said as we locked up. “Explain whatever your misunderstanding was.”

But my roadblock was already in place and I couldn't see how to get round it.

The silence of early evening drifted through the Hall—everyone in his or her own corner before gathering later in the library for drinks. I changed clothes and wandered down to the kitchen to find my piece of chocolate cake from Nuala. I must remember to tell her she needn't do this every single day. The kettle was still warm—someone must've been in moments before me—and so it took no time at all to reheat for my tea. I got out cup and saucer, and nibbled at the cake while worries nibbled at my mind. Blackmail loomed large in the motives for murder, didn't it?

Sheila would be in soon to finish up the dinner. I could smell beef in the oven. I took my phone off the table where it had lain silent as the rest of the house and dropped it into my pocket. I'd half a cup of tea left and hadn't finished my cake, and I found I was not that eager to—but I didn't want to seem ungrateful, so I shoveled in the last few bites as I rose. Taking my teacup and saucer, I reached for my plate and knocked my fork on the floor. I bent over to retrieve it, and when I stood, a woman had appeared on the other side of the table.

I screamed and dropped my plate, cup, and saucer. Tea splattered as the dishes struck the corner of the table and shattered, pieces shooting across the floor.

“Jumpy little thing, aren't you?” she asked in a liquid voice, low and throaty.

She didn't move, only smiled, her full red lips set off against a tanned, unlined face with prominent cheekbones and heavy eyelids lined in black. Her hair fell in stiff, dark blond curls to her shoulders. Her entire body was one of angles shown off to perfection in a sea-green dress wrapped tightly round her form, accenting her full breasts, which seemed to defy gravity and, I thought, looked as if they'd had some assistance in the matter—either temporary or permanent.

“You scared the wits out of me,” I said. The adrenaline rush left me weak. I dropped to the floor and began gathering broken pieces of china, as Sheila bustled into the kitchen and stopped dead, eyes darting between the blonde and me.

“Oh, well, here the two of you are together,” she said. “And so you've met, have you?”

“No, we haven't met,” I said, taking a second look at Sheila's flushed face. I put down the broken dishes, regained my composure, and held my hand out to the stranger. “Hello, I'm Julia Lanchester.”

Her smile grew as she contemplated my hand before she reached out and offered hers, turned palm down.

“How lovely to meet you, Julia. I'm Isabel Fotheringill.”