Palmer-Jones 01 - A Bird in the Hand (27 page)

Peter seemed shaken and dazed, though not by George’s harsh observation. He asked: “How old is Barnaby?”

“I’m no expert. About twelve months, I should think.”

“She was waiting for me to make up my mind to leave Barbara. I kept putting her off … How has she managed to bring him up? What has she done about money? What does he look like?”

“Perhaps you should ask Sally those questions. She’s working for Ella at the Windmill today. Barnaby will be there too.”

Peter was almost panic-stricken. He seemed to have lost all confidence.

“I can’t go now. You don’t realize what I’ve done!”

Then, more calmly, he said: “You’re right of course. I’ll go to see her this afternoon and arrange to meet her, so that we can talk.”

He took little part in the remainder of the conversation, and made no pretence of following what was being said. George turned to Adam:

“I must know what you were doing on the morning of your accident. If you were with someone that morning you must tell me who it was. I don’t think you understand how important it is.”

His voice was almost pleading, but Adam refused to respond. He blinked and shuffled in a graceless, adolescent way.

“I’m sorry,” he said at last. “ I just can’t tell you.”

“I’ll be around all day,” George said. “If you change your mind, come and see me.”

Adam smiled sheepishly. Rob pulled himself out of his sleeping bag and stretched.

“Does this interrogation mean that you still don’t know who killed Tom French? It’s very impressive, all this information about Sally and Peter, but it doesn’t help much, does it?”

“I shouldn’t say that,” George said carefully. “All investigation is basically a matter of eliminating the irrelevant. And it all helps me to get a clearer picture of Tom French. You didn’t like him, did you?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Some of the things you said about him. No. More accurately, it was the way in which you said them. Why didn’t you like him?”

“When I told you that he was generous and kind, all that was true. He was like that. But he wasn’t sincere. He wasn’t kind through friendship. It was to prove that he was a kind person.”

Adam seemed about to interrupt, but only shook his head and let Rob continue.

“I suppose that he was desperately insecure. He assumed an almost god-like interest in other people’s moral welfare. He intruded. It was impossible to shake him from the belief that he was right. He never listened to what other people said. He just carried on talking, or rather lecturing. He was good at lecturing.”

Rob paused and considered before continuing: “But that’s not a fair picture either. With people who didn’t post any threat, like children or old ladies, he was perfectly natural. I could never understand him.” “Why didn’t you tell me that you felt like that about him?”

“It didn’t seem …” He searched for the right word. “… appropriate. And it was only my impression of him. I know that I’m not the most tolerant person in the world. Other people seemed to like him, especially if they weren’t birdwatchers. Perhaps he needed to keep his reputation as the great twitcher. You know what they say: ‘Once a twitcher always a twitcher.’ Even other birders seemed to get on okay with him. He was quite a legend with the youngsters, you know. Tom French who put Rushy on the twitchers’ map.”

“But he did,” said Adam. “ He did make Rushy a very special place, pretty well all by himself. And I did admire him. Even though he didn’t manage to get out much, he was still an excellent birder. The rest was just his attitude. He was shy, I think. He didn’t know how to speak to people.”

“Now don’t get me wrong,” Rob said. “I didn’t want him to die. I was really shocked, and I want you to find out who did it. I’m just trying to be honest about him.”

George began to pile empty cups on to the tray.

“Have you come across anyone lately who has had any trouble with their ‘scope, any focusing problems? Or do you know of anyone who has recently dropped or damaged a telescope?”

Rob and Peter shook their heads. Adam looked quickly at Rob, but before he had the opportunity to speak Tina came into the room. She had dressed and was carrying her sleeping bag in a striped canvas bag over her shoulder.

“I’m going home,” she announced aggressively. “I’ve had enough of all this madness.”

George immediately became charming.

“I can understand just how you feel,” he said reasonably, “ but I would ask you to reconsider. I do believe that I can reach some conclusion about Tom’s death very shortly, and anyone who knew him well may be able to help me. Please stay until Sunday. Perhaps I can tempt you: I have a close friend who’s a member of the Rushy ringing group. He was planning to cannon-net some waders on the beach early tomorrow morning. Perhaps, you’d be interested in going along to help?”

Tina’s aggression dissolved.

“It’s ages since I’ve done any cannon-netting. Do you think he’d mind if I went with him?”

She put her canvas bag on the floor and sat on it. “ Is there any tea in the pot?”

When George Palmer-Jones left to return to the Windmill, Adam Anderson found himself going too. Adam wondered, briefly, at George’s skill at persuading people to do what he wanted. He was touched, but faintly irritated by the older man’s concern. It would do no good.

The storm of the night before had disappeared, leaving the ditches full and the grass wet. It was a still, clear day, with a faint mist over the sea. Ella was looking out for George and called him to her as soon as he entered the Windmill.

“Mrs. Black has been trying to get hold of you,” she said. “Her Terry came home last night. She’s frantic because the police are still holding him at the station and she thinks that you might be able to help. She says that she’s got the information you wanted. Very mysterious she was. She wouldn’t tell me what it was all about, but she said that you would understand.”

“Where is Mrs. Black now?”

“Back at the cottage. She says that she’s got a solicitor to look after Terry. She’s desperate to talk to you, and she’s gone home to wait for you.”

“Do you know where Molly is?”

“She’ll be back in five minutes. She’s just given Jack a lift home in your car.”

“Can you ask her to keep an eye on Adam?”

“I’ll keep an eye on that young man.”

George smiled, and a little reluctantly walked back to the village.

Sally started to walk from Fenquay to Rushy. There was no bus at the right time on Saturday, it was a fine day and it was not far to walk, even with Barnaby in the pushchair. But just outside the village a butcher’s delivery van stopped, offered her a lift and took her all the way to the Windmill. She saw this good luck as an omen. It would be a good day. She felt light-headed with expectation, with a teenage, romantic anticipation that all that lay ahead would be happy and fulfilling. Overnight she had convinced herself that George Palmer-Jones thought that Peter was innocent.

She knew that he had given her no grounds for that belief, but she had no doubt at all that it was so. Peter was innocent, and the only reason he had not come to see her was because he had not known that she was living in the area. Soon, perhaps even that day, he would return from Scotland, George would tell him all about her and Barnaby, and they would begin their life together again. All her fears had vanished. Rushy was clean and fresh after the storm and in the still air was the scent of lilac and cut grass. It was a day for hope and for dreams to come true.

Ella had never before seen Sally so elated. The younger woman filled the place with a giggling good humour. She was singing as she worked and she made silly jokes. Barnaby too seemed to have caught his mother’s excitement. The kitchen door had been left open so that he could play on the short grass outside. He had found a bright, striped ball, almost as big as himself, and he rolled over with it on the grass, laughing helplessly. Ella fed him chocolate biscuits and fizzy drinks.

Ella was glad to have Sally there. During the day the Windmill filled steadily with depressed and tired twitchers who had travelled from all over the country to see the blue-cheeked bee-eater. Sally worked faster than Sandra, so that the birdwatchers at least could not complain that they had to wait for their food. Ella had passed on the information about the bee-eater to most of them, and although nothing directly was said to her, she could sense their disappointment and frustration. She did not want to give them further grounds for complaint, and Sally distracted them from their depression and anger. Most of the twitchers had little contact with women, so to be teased and flattered by a pretty woman made them feel good. It was a novelty. In some way it compensated for the wasted trip to Norfolk.

Sally worked deftly and quickly, but she did not concentrate on what she was doing. Each time the door opened and a new group of birdwatchers pushed past the rucksacks into the crowded building she looked up to see if she recognized the new arrival. Because she was sure that Peter would come to find her that day. In Scotland he would have heard the rumour of the rare bird. He would have come home. Each time she had to turn her disappointment into a bantering call of welcome.

It was in the middle of the afternoon when the young birdwatcher came in to give her the message from Peter. It was a quiet time and Ella had taken Barnaby for a walk in the pushchair to give him a chance to sleep. Sally had watched the door open, turned back to cutting sandwiches to hide her sadness when she did not recognize the arrival, and then looked up again as he approached her. He was short and fat. She had never seen him before.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Are you Sally Johnson?”

She nodded.

“Peter Littleton asked me to give you a message. He would like to talk to you. Could you meet him in the north hide in about an hour?”

Before she could answer or ask any questions the boy left, smiling over his shoulder at her as he shut the door. She had no opportunity to gloat that she had been right, to dream about the meeting, to picture how he would look and what she would say, because Ella came in, loud and real, demanding immediate attention.

It was so cold out there, Ella said. The fog had come in from the sea, quite suddenly. Over the village it was very warm and clear, but across the marsh the weather was raw and damp. She shook the drops of moisture from her dark curls to prove it, and insisted on a hot drink for herself and Barnaby.

Sally felt an irresistible urge to talk about Peter.

“Ella,” she said suddenly, “ do you know Peter Littleton?”

“Of course I do,” Ella answered with possessive pride. “ He was one of my first twitchers. He’s a dear.”

“I used to know him very well,” Sally said. “ Oh Ella, he’s come back from Scotland, and he wants to meet me in about an hour. Do you mind?”

“Now don’t be silly. Of course I don’t mind. Has he been in then? Did I miss him?”

“No, he sent one of the birdwatchers with a message.”

Ella protested at first when Sally wrapped up Barnaby and put him in his pushchair to go with her to see Peter, but Sally was insistent. She said that there was a very good reason why Peter would want to see Barnaby too, and Ella finally seemed to understand. She held the door open for Sally to negotiate the way out of the building, and gave a faint, romantic sigh as she waved them out into the fog.

It was with some surprise, then, that Ella saw George Palmer-Jones and Peter Littleton come into the Windmill thirty minutes later, and it was with some anger that she said to Peter.

“You’ve not left that girl and that baby out there on the marsh in this fog?”

She noticed that he seemed unwell, ill at ease, and as she spoke all the colour drained from his face.

“What do you mean, Ella?” he asked quietly.

“Sally,” she said impatiently. “ You sent a message that you wanted to see her out on the marsh. She took the baby with her.”

George looked questioningly at Peter, who shook his head.

“I was going to ask her to meet me outside,” he said. “ Then the fog came down and I thought it wouldn’t be fair, so I waited until I knew it would be quieter here, and built up my courage to come in.”

“Do you know who brought the message?” George asked.

“No.” Ella seemed not to sense that it was important. “Sally just said it was one of the birdwatchers. Because the message came from Peter, I presumed that Rob had been in. Did you see Mrs. Black?”

“Yes. I suppose Molly and Adam are out on the marsh?”

“I think so. I gave Molly your message. Adam sat out on the bank for a long while talking to the other lads, then they both went off towards the village.”

“What about Rob Earl or Tina? Have you seen them?”

“That Tina was in earlier. She was looking for you too. She said something about arrangements for going ringing tomorrow. She hasn’t been gone long. She went out soon after Sally and Barnaby. I haven’t seen Rob at all.”

George turned, without a word, and went out. Peter hesitated for a moment, then followed him. Ella shook her head and hoped that Barnaby would not catch a cold.

Sally found her way to the north hide quite easily despite the mist. There was a solid boardwalk, and it was easy to push the chair along it. The mist made the encounter more exciting. Far away there was the heart-rending call of a fog horn and the hollow sound of the pushchair on the boardwalk echoed around the marsh. She had thought that he would be in the hide to meet her and when it was empty she was a little disappointed, but she sat to wait. She opened the flaps, but could see nothing outside except for a small pool of water. The noise of the fog horn was repeated very close to her by the boom of a bittern, and the sound shocked her. The fog seemed to be growing thicker and as she sat waiting, with nothing to do, she began to feel uneasy. Barnaby was unusually quiet and would not respond to her games. She longed to hear footsteps along the boardwalk, for Peter to climb the ramp into the hide, and yet she became more and more convinced that he would not come.

It never occurred to her to go back to the Windmill. She did not think that she might see Peter another time. More than anything in the world she wanted to see him now. Perhaps she had made a mistake, and this was not the north hide. Perhaps Peter was waiting for her in the other hide, thinking that she did not care and had refused to meet him. She imagined his distress at her callousness, and it became suddenly so real, so intense that she felt that she must find him and comfort him. She was convinced that he was waiting for her in the other hide and that he needed her. Although she had only a limited idea of the position of the hides, she pushed the chair down the ramp and on to the boardwalk. She realized immediately that the fog was much thicker than it had been on her arrival.