The Rhyme of the Magpie (10 page)

Outdoors, I gulped in the chill air to clear my head.

“What did you talk with Giles Fenwith about yesterday?” Michael asked, and the inside of my head began to cloud up again.

“He's a family friend—he and Dad have stayed close, and I thought he might know something.” I stuck my hands in my coat pockets. “Turns out he didn't know anything. He hasn't even seen Dad for a while.”

“Were you counting magpies? Is that what you were doing when you got off the train?”

“You mean when you were stalking me?”

“How many were there?”

I shrugged. “It was difficult to get an accurate count. Five at the end, I think.”

“And what's that mean?”

“Five for silver,” I murmured, and continued walking. Michael could scoff all he liked—the magpies had delivered messages before, and I thought it quite possible they were doing so again. I just didn't know what it was.

“Julia,” Michael said softly.

I looked up.

“I'm sure he's safe. But he must talk to the police—the longer he waits, the more it looks as if he has something to do with Kersey's murder.”

We stopped at my door and stood silent.

“Coffee?” I asked.

I waited for the kettle to boil while Michael made himself comfortable on the sofa. We may not be able to solve a murder, but at least we could sort out this letter sent to Dad.

“I'll give you a crank,” I said. “Daffy Happer.”

“Colin Happer? That's a bit of a leap, don't you think? What would be his motive?”

I poured boiling water into the cafetière and took the tray to the table by the sofa. “He's terribly envious of Dad's success and always sneaking round behind his back hoping to grab some fame for himself. He could quite easily have written that letter.”

“Happer has called a production meeting,” Michael said, adding milk to his mug.

“He what?”

“Says he can't get hold of Rupert and we'd better get going on the next few episodes.”

“The nerve, the bloody nerve of that man. Dad gave Daffy his first break—did you know that? He was a schoolteacher in Nettlecombe down in Dorset and met Dad at a fund-raiser. Dad liked him and said, ‘Why don't you do a report for us from the south coast?' Ever since then, Daffy has been worming his way into the production. You know what he wants the show to be about, don't you?”

Michael shook his head.

“
Newts
. Now, I've nothing against newts, per se, and I realize they've been in decline the past few years, but an entire series on them? We must consider the broader picture. My God, newts.”

Snapping his fingers, Michael said, “That's what he reminds me of—a newt.”

I snickered. “You're right. It's his hair”—I stuck the heel of my hand on my head and waved my fingers around—“he looks just like a great crested newt.” I stirred my coffee. “You won't let him do that, will you—have a production meeting without Rupert?”

“I thought I'd give him some rope and see what happens.” Michael glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. “I set it for Thursday, just three or four of us.”

I had let go my old life, but it seemed to be dragging me back. “I want to be there.” I waited for Michael to refuse, but he didn't, and so I went on. “I know Daffy better than you, and maybe I can, you know, ask a few leading questions.”

“Yes, that would be good. I said Marshy End, if that's all right. Seems to be the hub for the show.” I nodded. “But it's at noon,” Michael said. “Don't you work on Thursday?”

Another favor to ask Vesta. She worked afternoons on
Thursdays—would
she mind taking the whole day without me? She seemed willing to help with whatever I asked, but still, it gave me a guilty pang. I really would explain myself to her tomorrow after I finished at the TIC.

I poured Michael more coffee. “I'll sort something out. Oh, and could you—”

“Give you a lift to Marshy End? Of course.”

“Thanks. I'm not trying to take over, you know. I'm sure you're already deep into new projects and plans.” Michael smiled at me over the rim of his mug. “Aren't you?” I asked, a bit annoyed that he didn't want to brag on what he'd been doing.

“Well, I've an idea or two.”

Nothing. “Are they secret?”

Michael sat up. “Books.”

I shook my head. “No, he won't do a book. We've tried—Rupert says that his name is all over the place as it is—he doesn't want to go over the top like those television cooks and end up with his own line of birdseed.”

“This wouldn't be for him, it would be for the foundation.”

“What foundation?”

“The one we'll set up. Rupert will write an entire bird series, each one for a different age group, all funded by a select group of businesses that adhere to a strict set of guidelines in dealing with the environment. Money raised will go directly to the foundation, which will award grants to schools and scholarships to students. Rupert will lend his name to the project, but others will reap the rewards.”

I stared off in the distance, imagining the impact Dad could have. I looked up at Michael to find him watching me. “That's a huge undertaking,” I said. “And…it's brilliant.”

“It's no good, thinking small,” Michael said. “It will never get you anywhere.”

We'd finished the coffee, and it had grown quiet. Michael took in the room, his eyes moving from coatrack to lamp to me to mantel, back to me.

“Good to have a fireplace. Do you use it?”

I nodded. “Yes, it's lovely. Heats up the rooms well.” Silence. “Are you all right to drive home?”

A smile tugged at the corner of Michael's mouth. “Are you asking me to stay?”

I sprang off the sofa, my face aflame. “Look, I don't want you to get the wrong idea. We need to help Rupert, and I'm perfectly willing to work with you on that, but that's it. There's nothing more to it.”

Michael stood, too, and I watched his eyes cool to steel gray. “Understood,” he said, and set his mug on the tray. “And don't worry, I'm well able to drive—I'll be awake for a while now.”

We said good night. I pushed the door shut behind him and threw the latch. I stood staring at the door, frowning. I should've been happy that he'd gone, but instead I was annoyed—at myself. I gathered up our coffee things, clanking mug against mug and spilling the milk. “Well done, Julia—you've stated your position clearly, got your point across, stood your ground. I'm quite proud of you.”

I checked the time—just gone midnight. I wondered if my sister might still be awake.

Rain peppered my bedroom window during the night—I knew because I listened to it for a good long while before I finally slept. So it was with joy that I awoke at seven o'clock the next morning to sunshine streaming across my bed. I opened the window and leaned out—raindrops still clung to leaves, and now with the sun, it looked as if my garden had been dusted with diamonds. A delightfully warm breeze touched my cheeks. A grand day in Suffolk.

Dressed and downstairs, I stood at my open French door, a piece of buttered toast in hand, and watched the goldfinches settle onto the feeder. When my phone rang and I didn't recognize the number, my heart leapt at the thought it might be Dad ringing from somewhere.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Ms. Lanchester, Sergeant Flint here.”

A single cloud passed over the sun.

“Hello, good morning.”

“Will it be today that you'll come round to sign your statement?”

“No, I'm sorry, I can't
today—tomorrow,
I'll stop in tomorrow.”

“We'll need the address in Cumbria where your father is staying. Mr. Sedgwick said that you would have that.”

“Oh, did he?” I asked, fuming. “Well, he probably doesn't remember that I gave him all that information when I left my post. You'll need to ask him again.” I wondered how long we could keep this lie in the air.

When the phone rang again, I looked at it with suspicion, but no need. It had been too late to ring my sister the night before, but I had sent her a text.

“Bee?” I answered.

“Hang on,” Bianca said, and I heard the muffled but recognizable sound of throwing up. Ah, my sister's first trimester. I waited until she came back to the phone. “Right, here I am.”

“Little Edmund making himself known, is he?”

“Paul cooked pancakes for breakfast—it seemed a good idea at the time. He's feeding the children now, and I'm going to take a long, quiet bath. Listen, have you spoken with Dad?”

“No. Did he ring you?”

“No—but did you hear that someone was killed just near the cottage? Paul says he's to do with that wind-farm company Dad is campaigning against. Do you think Dad has heard about it?”

“Possibly, but we aren't sure.”

“We? You and Beryl?” she asked with a fair amount of well-founded incredulity in her voice.

“No, Michael.”

“Who's Michael?”

“Dad's new assistant. I had to be replaced, you know.”

“Ah, I'd forgot his name. Dad's quite keen on him, says he's coming up with fab ideas. But what are you doing with him?”

“What's that supposed to mean?” I asked, jumping to a conclusion I shouldn't have—at least not with my sister.

A speculative murmur oozed its way along the phone line. “Jools,” Bianca asked slyly, “do you have something to tell me?”

“I have nothing to tell you,” I said. “I don't know anything about him. It's just that we…” Right, well. I started at the beginning, giving Bianca an account of recent events, but keeping the murder details sketchy.

“That's dreadful,” Bee said when I finished. “Why didn't you tell me right off? Where is Dad—he should be there, shouldn't he?”

“Perhaps you could tell him if he rings.” I stuck another slice of bread in the toaster. “Bee, I stopped by to see Fenny the other day.”

“How is he?”

“All right, I suppose. I'm not sure he and Dad see much of each other these days.” I was fishing, and my sister probably knew it.

“Some friends are exhausting, Jools. Maybe Fenny has finally worn Dad out.”

I buttered my toast and didn't answer for a moment, feeling another thread in the fabric of my life come loose. “Dr. Drabwell was there.”

“Oh God,” she said, laughing, “remember how we used to run from him, imagining he was the mummy come back to life?”

I stood on the pavement in front of the TIC and greeted the visitors in the minibus, handed out packets of information, waved them on their way, and returned to my post. I spent the morning chasing details. I scheduled the health and safety inspection of the café at the Hall and talked with our local interior designer, who was to fit out five holiday caravans—small trailers that sat along the brook that ran through the estate. All the while the sunny day tempted me, and so I closed for lunch, bought a sandwich from Akash, and walked to the green, where those residents of Smeaton not at work lay about basking in the sun, half-naked and blindingly white. I took off my cardigan and found space at the end of a bench.

Across the green, I saw a shadow disappear behind the wide trunk of an oak tree. I blinked and squinted to see who it was, but when a dog raced out the other side, I got my answer, and my attention was pulled instead to the minibus, stopping for lunch. The twelve visitors climbed off and settled on the ground under a wide beech. We should have a few picnic tables, I thought, as I closed my eyes and took a deep, easy breath. And a bandstand. Pleasant thoughts of Sunday afternoon concerts bobbed about in my head until I heard an echo of Michael from the night before—“It's no good, thinking small.”

My brain began to rearrange the details of a Sunday afternoon picnic until I saw a line of tables running down the high street through the village and crowds of people enjoying a supper with food supplied by local farmers and cooked by a famous British chef.

We would sell tickets for the event, and the proceeds would go toward building the new pensioners' cottages on the south end of the village. The evening would end with a concert on the green—perhaps I could pull a few strings and get a mention on the local radio station. No—bigger! BBC Radio could broadcast from the event. Smeaton's Summer Supper. My eyes popped open.

Parading round the grass in front of me were magpies. I counted fast before they could get
away—onetwothreefourfivesix.
“Aha!” I leapt up. “Six for gold!”

The old gentleman at the other end of the bench chuckled. “Drifted off, did you? Easy to do, so little goes on round here.”

Not for long.

Aflame with energy, I worked up a proposal for the event. I knew I must be totally prepared before I presented it to Linus, and so I practiced aloud, asking and answering questions about parking and food safety and child minding and portable loos. I walked back and forth and round and round in the TIC—a short journey no matter which way you
measured—speaking
as if I were a barrister arguing my case before the Crown Court.

Late in the afternoon, I sat with a cup of tea rereading my document. With a satisfied sigh, I leaned back and reached for another malted-milk biscuit. The morning's post lay next to me, and I sorted through the few
pieces—advertisements
mostly, but there was a note from a village shop owner who congratulated us on our burgeoning tourism business. A TIC fan letter.

Summer suppers faded from my mind as Rupert's crank letter came onstage. We didn't even know what it said. I knew my dad, and was sure he'd downplayed its significance to Michael. We needed to read the letter.

But where was it? He had put it somewhere safe. He had wanted to talk with me about the letter, but he hadn't left it at my cottage—I would've seen him slip it into a book or something. And when he returned to Smeaton the next day to “borrow” my car, he hadn't come by to see me.

A pricking sensation crept up my arms as suddenly I knew—I just knew. Dad had indeed left the letter with me. It was in my lockup. He'd taken my car and left me the letter.

I could concentrate on nothing the last hour of work except going for that letter the second I was free. I made another cup of tea; it sat cooling while I rearranged leaflets. At five minutes to five o'clock, I stood watching the clock, waiting until the moment I could close up. With sixty seconds to go, the bell jingled and in walked two stout women with rucksacks and walking sticks.

“Are you still open?” asked the one with short brown hair.

“Yes,” I said, trying my best to muster some enthusiasm for the intruders. “What can I help you with?”

“We wanted to see your maps—do you have any that show the footpaths around the estate?” asked the other one.

I grabbed a map off the rack and thrust it at them. “This is a very good map.”

“What about that one there?” the brown-haired one nodded to the other.

“Yes,” I said, handing a second map over, “this is lovely, too.”

“And that one”—pointing to the rack again—“is that from the Ramblers?”

I whipped the third map from its holder, barely able to keep from throwing it at them. The women slowly unfolded each one until we were three figures adrift upon a cartographical sea. They discussed the pros and cons of each as I heard the seconds ticking by and the letter—the letter to Dad—calling my name from down the high street and around the lane. Now that I knew it was there, I could barely keep still.

“Three stiles,” I said in answer to a question. “All rebuilt recently, and so they're quite sturdy.” And in response to another, “You'll see a group of caravans in a field beyond the Hall—just at the edge of the wood. They're not ready to be occupied at the moment, but if you've got your own gear, you could camp there near the brook. You'll have loads of privacy.”

“Doesn't matter to us if someone else is there,” said the one with the brown hair. “We keep ourselves to
ourselves—other
campers leave us alone and we aren't a bother to them.” This launched the two of them into a discussion on their philosophy of minding their own business.

Past six o'clock, and at last we three stood out on the pavement while I locked up. But the women walkers weren't finished with me yet. “I hope Janet and I haven't kept you. We appreciate your assistance,” said the one with the brown hair.

“No, not at all, so happy to help.” I edged my way past them, patting my bag and walking backward as I spoke. “It's just, I've got a letter to attend to, you understand, something my dad left for me. I need to see to it and so I'll just be on my way.”

“Good news, I hope,” said Janet.

“Yes, well, of course, yes.”
Let me go,
I pleaded silently. “I hope you enjoy your stay in Smeaton. Please let us know if we can do anything else for you.”

I ran, but before I'd got ten steps away, guilt hooked me. I turned for one last word. “You'll let me know how you get on, won't you?”