Empty Nest (6 page)

As I had missed most of Cider Day, I made sure to be the last to leave the orchard, collecting rubbish, washing screens from the press. I arrived back at the Hall weary and with bits of apple pulp stuck in my hair. Still, I was clean and polished and in the library with a glass of sherry before anyone else came down.

“We had a hundred people at the orchard,” I said to the men once they'd arrived and had their drinks in hand. I was unable to hide the triumph in my voice. “That's twenty-five more than we anticipated.”

“It's a great deal of work and little to show for the estate's accounts,” Addleton said.

I countered the sourpuss with sweetness and light. “At least half the people were from off the estate. We give them a lovely day, and they'll return to spend money. Nothing ventured,” I said, and smiled at the agent.

Freddy put his hand on the mantel. “Well, I for one had a fine morning. And you, Cecil, looked as if you enjoyed yourself.”

Cecil went red. “Leave it, Freddy.”

My eyes flickered to Freddy. “It was good of you to help out, Cecil,” I said. “Were you working with Adam in the cider house?”

“I'd say Cecil was working Louisa,” Freddy answered with a grin.

“I said
leave it.
” Cecil slammed his empty whisky glass on the tray.

Linus jumped in. “Cider Day was a fine achievement, Julia,” he said, “but only one of many. Although I'm sorry it began in such a way for you.”

During dinner, conversation turned to dead sparrow hawks. Linus asked the men if they'd seen anything suspicious. Hadn't Cecil been out on the estate yesterday? Cecil took exception to the question. “Am I to keep a diary of my every movement?” he replied to his father, who only smiled in reply. I, on the other hand, would've given Cecil a sharp rap on the knuckles if I could've reached him.

“Mr. Addleton, it happened quite near your lodge,” I said. “You might've seen someone in the area. A rambler or someone who parked in the lane and got out. Anyone?”

Addleton stared at me for a moment. I stared back. He may think little of my position as tourism manager, but I wouldn't be intimidated by him.

“I saw no one,” he said at last. “I spent the afternoon on the northeast side of the estate, talking to those organic farmers.”

I didn't like the way he looked at me—as if I had asked another question entirely—although I had no idea what that would've been. It occurred to me that the person with the means to poison the birds was here at the table—the agent, now living in the former gamekeeper's lodge.

Freddy asked what a sparrow hawk looked like. With Linus's assistance, I found a copy of
British Birds with Their Nests and Eggs
on a shelf in the library and showed him a color illustration, after which Freddy murmured, “Ah yes, I've seen one of those.” He looked up to see our surprised expressions. “Not dead, of course,” he added.

We lapsed into silence. I had been determined to remain cheery through the evening—especially knowing I wouldn't have to put up with these dinner companions the following night—but my good spirits were tested. Also, I was a bit apprehensive, knowing I would need to tell Linus I'd be absent the next evening—it wouldn't do to have him hear it from Mrs. Bugg. I was, after all, his guest at the Hall and must act accordingly.

Pudding stood out as the highlight of the evening—a damson tart, which Thorne served with custard sauce. I ate mine too quickly, excused myself from coffee, and had made it halfway up the stairs before guilt dragged me back.

“Oh, Linus,” I said. He had followed me and stood at the bottom step, reluctant as I was, no doubt, to face the dreary company waiting for him in the library. “I'll be away tomorrow. I'll let Mrs. Bugg know, of course, but I didn't want you to worry when I wasn't at dinner.”

I tried without success to ignore the look of disappointment on his face. He didn't bother to ask where I'd be. “Yes, of course. And I'll be away Monday and back on Tuesday—I've asked Cecil to go with me to Gordon's gathering. I'll see you on Tuesday.”

I was free.

The next morning, I took my overnight case out the side door to keep from running into Linus. I did avoid him, but unfortunately ran into Cecil just as I closed the boot of my car.

“Julia, do you have a moment? Can we talk about the Christmas Market—I need a few details about the layout of the stalls on the green. Just curious—I wouldn't dream of interfering.”

Oh, I'd say you'll be dreaming of nothing else.
“Well, I am off to open the TIC,” I said, checking the time on my phone in an officious manner. “Sundays, you know—we often get a steady stream of visitors.” I weighed my options. “I tell you what, why don't you come to the market meeting we have Tuesday evening at the church hall? You'll hear all about it there.” I would rather he didn't attend, but if the choice lay between Cecil Tuesday evening in a crowd of people and Cecil now, one-on-one, there was no contest.

He appeared satisfied and went off to annoy someone else, and I drove into the village. I worked steadily through the afternoon. At five o'clock, I locked up the TIC, got in my little Fiat 500, and sped off to Haverhill and Michael's arms.

Michael's flat sat above an estate agent's office on a road of shops and offices just off the market square in the town. Michael had left his family's PR agency and moved from Cambridge the year before, and, unsure just how he'd make his way in the world, he'd looked for economy. He called it his garret—no larger than my Pipit Cottage, but at least it was habitable, as my cottage currently was not.

I pulled up and parked across the road. When I looked up to his window, I saw him peeking out, phone to his ear. He smiled, and I waved. I took a breath and told myself that I would not complain about living at the Hall. I would not spoil our brief time together with stories of how terrible my life of luxury was. As miserable as living at the Hall had become, I wanted us to enjoy ourselves, and so I would not speak a word about the outside world.

Still on the phone when he answered the door, Michael held up a finger—a signal, I suppose, to say he'd be right with me, as if I were there to buy a loaf of bread. I looked for a counter to wait behind.

“No, not tomorrow—I've no time at all tomorrow,” he said, giving me a wink.
That's better. My day off.
“Can't Tuesday,” he continued. “Wednesday at ten. Lunch? Right. Cheers. Bye.”

He tossed the phone on the sofa and took me in his arms. “There now,” he said, followed by a respectable hello kiss. “How's life at Hoggin Hall?”

My resolution crumbled. “Dreadful,” I said.

“Dreadful?” He frowned. “How is that?”

I dropped my bag on the floor. “I can't turn round without Cecil sneering at me and demanding to know my every move at the TIC. I've no time off. The new estate agent doesn't say anything, just stares at me across the dinner table with his arms crossed, daring me to make a mistake. And,” I said, gathering steam, “if I have to hear one more story about the cost of antique Italian marble from Freddy Peacock, I think I'll go mad.”

Michael's eyes cooled to a glacier blue. “You should've moved in here with me,” he said.

“You didn't ask me,” I replied crossly. My indignation bloomed. It's true—he hadn't. When toxic mold turfed me out of my cottage, everyone else had offered me space, and Michael had never said anything.

“Didn't ask?” His voice threatened to break, it shot so high. “I didn't get the chance to ask. You never took a breath between ‘I have to move out of my cottage' and ‘I'm moving into Hoggin Hall, it really is the best thing for me, I'll be right on hand for everything, I'm so lucky that Linus offered, because it's just what I wanted. It's perfect.' That's what you said.
‘Perfect.'
Put me in my place, didn't you?”

“Oh…” Those words did sound familiar. In truth, I'm not sure what I would've said if he had offered. The thought of living together, even temporarily, terrified me—while at the same time delighted and excited me. I couldn't sort out which emotion held sway. “I didn't want you to feel obligated,” I said in a small voice.

His eyes fired up to a hot blue flame. He took hold of my arms. “Move in with me,” he said, giving me a shake as if to wake me up. He was so earnest, my indignation flew away and I giggled.

“I mean it,” he said. “Move in with me now, today—don't go back. We'll stop by in a day or two and get your things. I want you here—I want us together.”

I pressed myself against him and kissed him long, long and hard until I thought we were about to be off on another activity, but I pulled back first. “That's so lovely,” I whispered. “But I can't.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Julia, you're driving me crazy here.” But I knew he meant it in a good way.

“It's just that as annoying as it is,” I said, “it really is better for me to be at the Hall right now—at least until after the Christmas Market—and maybe the Boxing Day Bird Count. And you—look how often you're away with Dad.” I drew my finger down his jawline. “But thanks for asking.”

Michael kissed the tip of my nose. “Right, stolen moments it will have to remain. But the offer stands—you remember that.”

I nodded. “I will remember.”

We lost ourselves in each other's eyes for a moment. “It's too early to go for a meal,” Michael said.

“Too early,” I repeated, stepping out of my shoes.

“But if you're hungry, I've cheese and olives in the fridge.”

“Not hungry,” I replied, stripping off my cardigan. Nuala had dropped by the TIC with cheese-and-bacon scones about four o'clock.

“Well, then,” he said.

Later, I pulled on my flirty pink dress and didn't once tug at the hem or regret how low the back dipped. We ate at our favorite place, a little French bistro—uncharacteristic for Haverhill, full of Wimpy's and Chinese takeaways—and returned to the garret. I didn't set foot out the door again until the next afternoon.

That's when we took a brief foray into Cambridge and had tea with Rupert and Beryl. The two men talked business, but Beryl and I went over details of my sister's fourth pregnancy, at long last reaching its terminus: she was due in a week's time. I'd talked with my sister the day before to catch up with the latest baby news. The doctor said that as Bianca had recently had her fortieth birthday, if the baby didn't pop out of its own accord, there would be hell to pay. No, really—they'd induce.

“I'm going down on Wednesday, and I'll stay for the duration,” Beryl said. “Won't you be able to go for a day or two after the baby arrives?” Beryl had married our dad almost a year ago, not long after our mum died, and technically she was Bianca's and my stepmother, but we had known her our whole lives, because she had been our mum's best friend. I had had some initial difficulty with their marriage but had got over it. Beryl had only an unmarried son, and had thrown herself into the role of grandmother to Bee's children with such relish it was breathtaking.

“I'll try to get there as soon as I can, but it's St. Ives, not Colchester.” Bee, her husband, Paul, and family lived in Cornwall, also known as the end of the earth.

Michael and Dad emerged from his study as I was setting out a plate of biscuits. “Jools, is there anyone on the Fotheringill estate who would think it a good idea to kill sparrow hawks—or any predator bird, for that matter?”

I shook my head. “It isn't as if someone thinks he's defending the game birds—there's no shooting on the estate. Linus says his father didn't shoot, and so he doesn't, either. No gamekeeper. I doubt if any of the farmers would do it—more predator birds means fewer rabbits.”

“Anyone talking about songbirds?” Dad asked.

“Songbirds—not that I know of.” Although studies had shown that predator birds did not decrease the songbird population, they were the first to be blamed.

“And the new agent?”

“He mostly does accounts, rents—the business side of the estate. What would he care about sparrow hawks?”

I stayed at Michael's far too late Monday evening, but it had been such a lovely escape. We lay snuggled under his covers, and when I turned my head to glance at the time—two o'clock in the morning—he stroked my thigh in an absentminded fashion. It took all my strength to resist.

“Health and safety,” I said as much to myself as to him. “First thing in the morning—I must be ready for them. And you—aren't you off early for a filming?”

“Green woodpeckers,” he replied. “At the edge of an ancient copse near Ramsey they've a massive number of wood ant colonies and the woodpeckers have been seen feasting. I've got to be up in”—he checked the time—“a couple of hours. But it shouldn't take long. I'll be free by midmorning.”

I smiled and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “So you texted the woodpeckers your filming schedule, did you, so they'd know when to show up?” Michael gave me a squeeze. “Be sure to switch your phone off—otherwise, just as you're about to hit the ‘record' button on the camera, your phone will ring, and off will go the birds.”

“Will do.”

I turned into the yard at the Hall at three o'clock, and the late hour seemed to magnify the sound of my tires crunching on the gravel. I tiptoed round to the back corner, breathing in a scent of wood smoke and breathing out a cloud of fog in the chill air, past the dark café, past the kitchen, and round to the back corner.

A heavy stone urn sat at the service door. Thorne had told me about the key underneath—it had been there forever and rarely used, he said. Carefully, I tipped the urn toward the wall, my arm just long enough for my hand to grope below until I located the key. It slipped in the lock and turned with little trouble. I replaced the key and crept in, making sure to lock up behind me. Down the stone stairs, past the laundry, up the inside stairs and I came out just near the kitchen, no one the wiser to my late-night/early-morning arrival.

The light over the sink gave me a warm welcome, and cocoa, saucepan, and a mug waited for me on the counter. I set down my bag, shed my coat, and had just opened the fridge for milk when Thorne walked in, silk dressing gown tied firmly around his thin frame and covering his paisley pajamas. He blinked at me, eyes shifting from my bag to the carton of milk in my hand.

“Oh no,” I whispered, “I woke you.”

“No, Ms. Lanchester,” he said, drawing his glasses from a pocket and putting them on. “You didn't wake me. My sleep comes in short increments these days—I've been reading in bed.” He frowned. “Have you only just arrived?”

“Yes, walked in this minute,” I said. With Thorne's acute hearing, who needed an alarm system? “You weren't waiting, were you?”

“No, it's only I thought…” He stared past me. “I must've dozed off and had a dream.”

“Well, I'm sorry to be so late and to bring you up from your rooms. You don't think I woke Mrs. Bugg, do you?” Thorne's quarters were belowstairs at the opposite corner of the Hall, but Mrs. Bugg's were only down the corridor.

“In my many years of knowing Mrs. Bugg, I have found that she is nothing if not a sound sleeper.”

I cut my eyes at Thorne. His face gave nothing away, but, fresh from Michael's bed, I could see the romance in any situation. Thorne and Mrs. Bugg had worked together at the Hall for donkey's years—who's to say it had never gone further than that? I wondered if I might be so bold as to pry. “I thought I'd make some cocoa,” I said. “Would you care to join me?”

We sat at the table over our mugs, but Thorne must've sensed an impending inquisition and steered the conversation toward his penchant for police thrillers set in Italy, giving me no opportunity to ask about intimate relationships, past or present. I might try to get it out of Mrs. Bugg instead. At last, a yawn overtook me.

“Right, well, we both best be off to bed,” I said, taking our mugs and washing up. “Good night.”

Thorne retreated down the hall to his room, and I walked to the entry, the lit sconces on either side of the door creating a pool of light and setting the crystal chandelier twinkling. I hesitated at the bottom of the staircase as a pricking like tiny needles crept up my arms. I listened, but heard nothing beyond the normal creaking noises of an old building. I'd been up and down these stairs in the near-dark many times, but tonight, the vast emptiness pressed in on me. I looked over my shoulder and back toward the kitchen, and saw the light in the far corridor go out, a signal that Thorne had made it to his own quarters. On either side of the staircase where I stood, darkness swallowed the corridors that led to the library, morning room, grand dining room. Only a reflection of light from some brass ornament in the distance pierced the blackness.

I rubbed my arms to make the pricking sensation go away. Hoggin Hall had never given me the creeps before, and so what made me tremble now? I walked up the stairs, holding tight to the handrail. At the landing, I shook some sense back into myself.
Don't be silly.
It's only a huge, old house with lots of dark corners. I wondered if there were any Fotheringill spirits Linus has neglected to tell me about—visitors might like to hear a few ghost stories from the docents on open days. I laughed as I turned and took the steps to the north wing at a clip.

At the top of the stairs, I caught the scent of smoke.