The Rhyme of the Magpie (11 page)

My lockup remained unlocked, but I had looped the broken chain back through the handles, and so from a distance it looked secure. Now, a gentle tug and the chain dropped to the ground. I took hold of the handles and pulled open the wooden doors, set my bag down, and felt for the light switch. The single bulb hanging from the ceiling did its best to dispel the dark.

The empty garage didn't seem so empty now that I knew it held Rupert's letter. Where had he stashed it? At my feet lay two short pieces of lumber I used to prop the doors open when I pulled my car in or out. I nudged them with my toe, but saw nothing. The workbench on the back wall held several open paint tins, labels torn off and contents dried up. I squinted at them in the dim light. Now, there's a place to put a letter.

I approached slowly, as if the tins might try to escape, both excited and afraid that I might be wrong. I looked into each tin, expecting to find my treasure, but seeing nothing apart from a coating of dried paint, mostly green but one tin of eggshell. I went back to the first one, picked it up and shook it, in case the paper was invisible and stuck, my desperation rising with each failure.

As I reached for the last tin, the light went out and I heard a noise behind me. I whirled round in time to see the doors close and hear the scraping of wood against wood.

Inky darkness surrounded me. “Hello?” I called. “Who's there?” I dropped the tin and ran across the garage, tripping over a piece of wood and stumbling into the doors, whacking the back of my right hand against the inside hasp. The doors rattled but didn't open. I put an eye to the slit. No movement, but I could see a dark band in the gap—a piece of wood had been thrust through the handles and held the doors fast.

“Hello!”
I shouted. “You've made a mistake—I'm in here. Please open the doors!”

I knocked and shouted, but got no response. I stood alone, inhaling the workshop smells of oil and dirt and wood, and tried to make sense of what had happened. But it made no sense—surely I'd been seen or heard. I put my ear to the crack between the doors, held my noisy breath, and listened. I could hear faint laughter. So that's who had locked me up—those rowdy boys.

“You boys come back here this instant!” I shrieked. “Come back here now and let me out—your parents will hear about this!”

Earlier in the year, they had wrapped the statue of St. Swithun in a Manchester United scarf and had also somehow managed to get a sheep up to the roof of the library. High spirits, everyone said, harmless antics. They'd just upped their game.

“This is ridiculous,” I said, my voice trembling. “Do you think you've locked me up in my own lockup?” I bellowed, imagining the boys sniggering their way up the high street.

Well, it wasn't as if I were trapped at the bottom of a well—I was in a garage down a quiet lane in my own village. I was behind Nuala's Tea Room. And Vesta was expecting me. I reached down to my bag for my phone, searching round in the dark. No bag. No phone. I had dropped it on the floor after I'd walked inside. Or had I left it outside? I wasn't sure.

I pounded my knuckles raw against the rough door. I called out again, but it was well after six o'clock by now—thanks to the women walkers. Nuala had long gone home, and I was too far off the high street for any passerby to hear me. I stopped, out of breath. Well, the boys wouldn't leave me all night—they would be back soon. And when they came back, there would be hell to pay.

I leaned against the door and slowly sank to the floor. Just as my bottom hit the ground, I heard voices in the lane—adult voices. I leapt up and began my pounding and shouting again. This time, there were answers and movement. A minute later, the wood scraped, the doors swung open, and, lit as silhouettes against the light above the back door of the tea room, there stood Nuala and Linus.

“Julia?” Linus's eyes were wide with surprise.

“What's happened?” Nuala asked. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, I'm all right,” I said, brushing myself off. “It's just that—oh, Linus, I'm afraid it might've been those boys. They must've seen me walk in and…well, it was just a prank. I'm sure they meant to come back.”

I stepped out to look into the lane, hoping to see the boys lurking behind a rubbish bin. As I did so, my foot kicked something, and I looked down at the contents of my bag—keys, phone, wallet, money, credit cards,
Observer's Book of British Birds
—strewn across the cobbles.

“Did they do this?” Linus asked. If the light had been better, I'm sure I could've seen steam coming out his ears. “Theft?”

I nodded miserably. “I suppose so. But look,” I said, bending down and scooping it all up, “I don't think anything is missing. They didn't really steal it.”

“Those boys,” Linus said, index finger in the air, “will be in for more than a talking-to after this. Too much time on their hands, that's what it is.”

“Come into the shop and sit down,” Nuala said. “You need a cup of tea. And I've a fresh chocolate cake waiting to be sliced.”

My stomach thought that was a fine idea, but my stomach would have to wait. “Oh, Nuala, that's so lovely, but really I must be getting home.”

“Well, then, you should take a slice with you.”

I couldn't argue with that, could I? I closed my lockup, securing it as best I could with the broken chain, and we walked into the tea room the back way. I waited while Nuala boxed up a generous wedge.

“I didn't interrupt anything, did I?” I asked Linus. “A meeting?” Or perhaps not a
meeting—wouldn't
that work out well for all of us if Linus got interested in more than Nuala's cakes?

I did see a tinge of pink on her cheeks, but Linus said, “I ordered a Battenberg from Nuala—Cecil's coming home for a visit, and I thought he'd enjoy it.” Ah, the heir apparent.

“Mmm, Battenberg,” I said.

“The estate must be a safe place for all its residents and visitors,” Linus said in a burst. “We cannot let hooliganism begin to take hold.”

I was free and, although a great deal disappointed that I hadn't found the crank letter and a bit shaken from the experience, I was willing to excuse the boys.

“We should find more constructive things for them to do,” I said. “It'll be fine, don't worry.” I patted his arm and his hand covered mine and then, thank God, Nuala handed me my cake. “Well, must run.”

I switched the kettle on first, then rang Vesta and made my excuses. “They have crossed the line here, Julia,” she said. “I'm happy it didn't turn out worse.”

“It was nothing, really.” I sat at the kitchen table in recovery mode with my tea and chocolate cake. “Although I certainly wouldn't want to be one of those boys when their parents hear what they've been up to.” I managed to swallow a dollop of frosting, but the sugar caught in my throat and I coughed. “Do you mind if we reschedule our chat? I'm knackered.”

“Of course we can. I'll see you tomorrow.”

I knocked my fist into my forehead as I remembered I needed more from her. “I wonder, Vesta, would it be all right if I took part of the day off tomorrow. I'm helping Michael with the new production schedule. Sort of.”

It was only a brief pause, but long enough that I almost jumped into it and confessed all—my dad, Beryl, Michael—Vesta had an interesting effect on me. She was a confessor of sorts, and I felt compelled to take advantage of that. Tomorrow.

“You take the day—it's so good of you to help Michael adjust to his post. I'm sure he appreciates it. And you.”

“Thanks, Vesta,” I said. “I'll see you before the end of the day.”

The next morning, the kettle had switched off and the toast had popped up when a text arrived from Michael. “We should get an early start.”

Something told me he meant early as in now. Instead of replying, I went to the door and pulled it open. I peered up the street but felt eyes on me from behind. I whipped round. The pavement was empty, but it felt as if it had recently been occupied. I tried Dad's birdwatching trick and stayed still, trying to catch movement out of the corner of my eye. Nothing. I retreated indoors, pushed the door almost to, and left it on the latch before answering Michael's text: “Almost ready.”

Two minutes later, a knock and Michael stood out on the pavement.

“I'm a bit slow this morning,” I said. “Would you like tea?”

“Thanks,” he said. He made directly for the open French door and looked out into the back garden toward the feeder. The makings of a birdwatcher.

“Toast? I'll put in more.” I slid open the breadbox.

“If it's no trouble,” Michael said, turning. “What've you done there?”

He nodded to the small bruise I'd received when I hit my hand against the hasp in my lockup. “Just a little accident,” I said, feeling my face go pink. In the morning light, the story of being trapped in my lockup for a grand total of ten minutes seemed a bit silly. “I was looking for that letter—I thought perhaps Dad had left it for me.” I shook my head at Michael's enquiring look. “No, I didn't find it.”

He buttered his toast and spread a thick layer of marmalade on top. “Rupert believes he can deal with whoever wrote the letter—once he identifies whom it is. Talk it out. But he shouldn't think the best of everyone—it's too dangerous these days. This fellow could be quite mad, a loose cannon, capable of anything.”

“Yes, Dad does tend to make things look rosier than they actually are. It would certainly help if we could see it,” I said. We ate in silence for a moment, while I imagined the worst this letter writer might be capable of. Michael and I reached for the last slice of toast at the same time, withdrew our hands, and laughed. “Shall I do us more?” he asked.

“Yes, thanks,” I said, and watched him take care of more breakfast as I hugged my mug of tea.

“Can we stop in at the police station in Mildenhall?” I asked as we pulled away from my cottage. “I need to sign my statement.”

“We could do,” Michael said. “I've yet to sign mine as well. It would be better if Flint isn't around, so we won't have to answer any more questions about Rupert's whereabouts.” He cut his eyes at me. “Why did you tell him I had Rupert's location?”

“Oh, well,” I said, reddening. “I thought we might keep that volley going a bit longer.”

He smiled. I took it as approval.

“Flint must be looking into all aspects of Kersey's life,” I said. “What about that little square of paper they found in his shoe—it looked like a betting slip. If he owed someone a great deal of money and didn't pay—he might've been killed because of that.”

“Yes, but with Kersey dead, the fellow would never get his money, now would he?”

I conceded the point with a nod as I watched the High Suffolk landscape slip by. The elder had burst into its wedding-white glory—we were in for another fine day. After the production meeting at Marshy End, perhaps we could slip away to the river for a walk—the reed buntings might be nesting and the comfrey would be in bloom. I could see us following the path to the bank, but halted in the dreamy journey when I thought of Kersey's body. I broke out in a cold sweat. Would I ever enjoy that outing again?

Michael pulled past the police station, turned round, and stopped under a copper beech so that we had a view of the car park.

“Now, let's see if this is the best time to sign our statements,” he said, pulling out his phone and making a call. He switched it to speaker.

“Mildenhall Constabulary,” a female voice said.

“Eh, hello, young woman. Could I speak with Sergeant Flint, please?” Michael asked, his voice gravelly and his accent country.

I slapped my hand over my mouth to keep from laughing aloud, and Michael winked.

“I'm sorry, sir, Sergeant Flint is out at the moment. Could I help you?”

“I'll say you could—it's that damned leylandii hedge running up against my property. It's fifteen feet if it's an inch, and shading out my parsnips. I want the police out.”

A weary note crept into the woman's voice. “Please, sir, complaints about hedges should go to your council, not the police. They'll give you the proper form to fill out.”

Michael thanked her and rang off. “Right, no Flint. Let's get this over with.”

“Won't someone want to ring you back? They've captured your number now,” I said as we walked up to the station.

“I blocked my number, but I doubt if that was necessary. Do you really think they're going to bother about an old fellow who wants a hedge trimmed?”

It took only a few minutes. The desk sergeant—the woman who had answered the phone, I
suspected—located
our statements, which we read over and signed. We were soon on our way, stopping for a few supplies before we got near Marshy End.

“You didn't tell Daffy I'd be here?”

“Colin Happer,” Michael corrected me, but he chuckled as he did so. “No, I thought it would be a nice surprise for him.”

Michael slowed when we turned up the long drive to the cottage, but my mind raced ahead. I saw us walking in the door and down the narrow hall to the kitchen, Marshy End's comfortable surroundings enveloping me like a blanket. But my imaginary feet stopped halfway to the kitchen, and instead turned left, sending me into my dad's small study. I could almost detect the musty odor in the room—it was the smell of happiness to me. Mum had always left it alone, and so Dad had crammed it with all his ornithology books, stacks of research papers, and towers of journals. He had never minded when Bianca and I disturbed him at his work—he would show us a scientific paper on how the breeding choices of the southern cassowary influenced its population and somehow explain it so that we understood. He kept old field notebooks piled in rickety columns next to his desk, every page crowded with comments and drawings. I once found a birthday card I'd made him when I was five sandwiched between two of those notebooks. “I've tucked it away here,” he had said, “so that I'll always know where to find it.”

I grabbed Michael's arm in a moment of revelation, and the car swerved into a stand of willow before he corrected.

“What's wrong?”

I held his gaze for a moment—a dramatic pause before my revelation. “I know where the letter is—it's here, I'm sure of it.”

His eyes widened, and I could see them actually change color, from a deep aqua to a sharp blue.

“Here—at Marshy End? How do you know?”

I shook my head. “I just know.”

He took the last piece of the drive at speed, and I raced indoors, directly to Dad's study, with Michael close behind.

“In here?” he asked, scanning the walls of books and heaps of papers on the floor. “I hope you know the spot, otherwise it could take a while.”

I had already moved to the field
notebooks—three
stacks of black books up to my knees. Many of them had seen better days—they'd been dropped in the water and dried out or left outdoors and retrieved days or weeks later. But each retained its black elastic wrapped round to keep it closed. I gave them a shove and the books slid across the floor. I dropped to my knees and spread them out further, looking for any paper Dad had stuck between books.

“Interesting search technique,” Michael said, joining me.

“Look,” I said, “this is where he saves important things.” I picked up a card with a flowery red heart on the front and opened it without thinking. “Happy tenth anniversary” it read, “with all my love, Anne.” Tears blinded my eyes for a moment. I set the card aside as Michael held up my birthday card.

“And what sort of bird is that?” he asked, pointing to my five-year-old crayon drawing of a brown-and-red misshapen circle.

I laughed, and a tear spilled out. I wiped it away and sniffed. “A robin—don't tell me you can't see that?”

“You all right?” he asked quietly. I nodded, and we went back to sifting through the notebooks.

We came across a few other notes and cards. I was losing hope until, pressed under the bottom book of a stack, we uncovered a single page of heavy, ivory-colored linen paper folded into thirds and again in half. It was filled with a perfect, computer-generated font that looked like handwriting. We saw the greeting at the top of the page: “My dear Rupert Lanchester,” and exchanged looks. We sat close on the floor, our backs against the desk, and read:

My dear Rupert Lanchester,

It must be difficult to stay perched on that pedestal, day in and day out. Do you get dizzy from those lofty heights? Or do you enjoy your aspect, lording it over the rest of us below, deigning to descend to earth only to rescue some lowly worm and so increase your reputation. The great Rupert, friend to man, woman, and bird—no problem too big or too small but that he wants to help.

Well, I'm telling you, your bloody help is no longer needed—in fact, your help has made my life a living hell. So let me return the favor. There will be no safe place for you. Look over your shoulder, Rupert. Expect the worst.

With very deepest regards

“Not a threat?” I said, my voice shaking.
“Not a threat?”
My heart thumped in my chest, and my mouth was dry. “He should've turned this over to the police the minute he'd read it. This is just like him. ‘Not to worry—I can sort it out.' But this crazy person shouldn't be sorted out—he should be locked away.”

The paper crumpled on the edge as I clenched my fist. Michael put his hand on mine and I released the letter, breathing hard.

“There are no specifics,” Michael said, rereading. “Look—it doesn't mention Kersey or anyone's death. It's menacing, but vague.” He frowned as he studied the paper. “Has anything happened that could be traced back to this?”

Me in my lockup,
I thought. But if that was the rowdy boys, my brief incarceration could not be pinned on this letter writer. Reluctantly, I shrugged. “I don't know. Perhaps it's meant only to harass and annoy Rupert. Cause him concern, throw him off his game. Someone wants to pester him like Mad Maddie did.”

My heart rate slowed as I looked at the letter as Dad would. An undercurrent of envy ran through the words, without a doubt. It had soaked into the ink, permeating the crisp linen paper. The writer was eaten up with resentment for something good that Dad had done.

We heard two cars pull in and could see out the window to Basil Blandy and two low-level tech guys standing about the yard.

“No producer or director?” I asked as I took Michael's offer of a hand to get up off the floor.

“I didn't want to give Happer a sense of
accomplishment.”

This would be a manageable production meeting—those three had no power.

I slipped the letter in my bag and went to open the door. We all exchanged greetings, mostly how-are-yous, but ginger-haired Basil reddened up when he saw me and said, “Remember those peregrine nest boxes you asked for, Julia—with space for cameras? I've got them almost finished.”

“Good news, Basil,” I said. And only two years in the making. Basil, general dogsbody, never finished anything unless we constantly nipped at his heels, and I'd dropped the ball on the peregrine houses. It was only because we could order him around so easily that we kept Basil on.

We made for the kitchen; the three settled on chairs at one end while I got busy at the sink, and Michael unpacked the biscuits. “Are you running the meeting, Julia?” Basil asked.

“Certainly not,” I said, filling the kettle. “I'm here only to make the tea.”

There was a snigger behind my back. “That's what you always say.”

“Is Rupert coming?” one of the tech guys asked.

“No,” Michael said. “But Happer will be here—he wanted a general overview of what's coming up for autumn. We can discuss concepts and brainstorm ideas.”

“Oh great—Daffy” was the comment under the breath of one of them.

“Will we be filming out here at the river?” Basil asked as the other two leaned forward. No doubt they had been discussing the murder as we drove up. “Because I want you to know that—”

“No,” I cut in with a quick glance at Michael. “Don't you remember the lineup for Lakenheath?”

The four of them began a discussion about the latest wildlife recording software, as I turned to prepare the tea.

“What-ho,” a voice called from the front door, and two seconds later into the kitchen he came—Colin Happer. He was short and solidly built, and when he took off his cap, he revealed his blond hair molded into a great crest. I swallowed a laugh. “Here's my crew,” he boomed, spreading his arms to Basil and the other two. “Sedgwick,” he acknowledged Michael.

“Hello, Colin,” I said from behind him. “How've you been?”

He whirled round, slammed his shoulder into the door, and winced. “Julia?” He licked his thick lips and lost all color in his face. “I didn't realize you were going to be here. I thought that…”

“Oh, I have nothing to do here, Colin—I'm only helping Michael. Please,” I said, gesturing to the table, “just ignore me.”

Daffy played musical chairs as he attempted to settle. First, he sat with his back to me, then switched to a stool that faced me, and finally stood with his back against the wall.

Basil grabbed four custard cream biscuits off the plate, and the meeting began. Michael spoke in general terms about Rupert's schedule, and I answered questions about catering and call times. Daffy kept his mouth shut unless he was inserting a biscuit.