The Rhyme of the Magpie (12 page)

This was easy. The meeting had no purpose, and it sounded as if Michael was about to wrap it up when we heard a knock at the front door and steps in the hall.

“Am I late?”

Gavin Lecky stood in the kitchen doorway in full regalia—two-day growth of beard, kestrel earring, leather pants, and all.

I broke the moment of dead silence from my corner of the kitchen. “What are you doing here?”

Gavin spun round, and I caught a flash of fear in his eyes. “Julia—what a pleasant surprise.” I noticed he fell short of his usual purring tone.

“Why are you here, Gavin? Who told you about this meeting?”

I saw his gaze flicker to Happer and back.

“What's this?” I asked.

“I told you I'd take care of it,” Happer barked at Gavin.

“Take care of what?” I asked.

“It's a production matter, Julia,” Happer cooed. “I don't think it concerns you.”

I glared at each of them. “Are you two working together?”

Happer took a couple of large breaths and jumped in. “There are a few ideas that Lecky and I want to propose.” He popped a biscuit into his mouth and looked at me, chin in the air.

So, that's it—these misfits were trying to get Rupert out of the way. They were opportunistic and underhanded, and I knew at that moment either one of them—or both—could've written that letter to Rupert.

“We believe that the scope of the series should widen…,” Happer said, but choked on his custard cream.

“You believe you can get away with a fast one—that's what you believe,” I said, advancing on Happer as the others scuttled to the far corner.

He shrank against the wall and coughed. A spray of biscuit crumbs pelted my chest. “We have legitimate ideas,” he managed to squeeze out, “that should be given consideration for this program. It isn't fair that Rupert won't hear us out, and so we've come to voice our…”

“You're cowards who can't face Rupert, and so you think you can go behind his back and oust him,” I shouted in his face. “Did it ever occur to you that if the BBC wanted you to host a program, they would've picked up on any one of your lame proposals? You think people are going to tune in to watch
The Daffy and Gavin Show
? A pondful of newts and you”—I pointed at Gavin, and he
recoiled—“raving
about your latest sighting of a short-toed eagle? Did you really see it, Gavin, or did you only imagine it?”

“I'd say the meeting is finished,” Michael said to Basil and the two tech guys. They took the hint and left.

Happer stood his ground, pulling himself up to his full five-foot-five. “I don't see what power you have here—either of you.”

“Written any letters of complaint lately?” I asked, standing with a clenched fist at my side. “Have you sunk so low that you would resort to threats to try to get your way, Daffy?”

“Don't call me that,” he whispered furiously.

I gave Gavin a look over my shoulder. “You think Rupert would run scared just because of your intimidation?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Gavin said in a low growl.

“You were up here on Sunday, weren't you, Gavin? We've mentioned that to the police, you know.” Must ring Flint and tell him. Why hadn't I thought of that before? Surely if anyone looked a murderer, it was Gavin.

“You go too far, Julia,” he said, his black eyes shining. He jerked his head toward the door. “Run along, Happer.” Daffy left in a hurry, but Gavin stayed behind. “The new assistant, is it?” he asked Michael, all his oily slyness returned. “I'd be careful if I were you, Sedgwick. Julia's hard on her men—in more ways than one.”

Fury choked me. I lunged at him, but Michael grabbed my arm. “Get out, Lecky,” he said.

Gavin seemed about to reply, but a screeching
kee-kee-kee
came from his jacket—another rare-bird alert. He grabbed his phone and walked out.

I shook all over, and couldn't look Michael in the eye or keep myself from babbling. “What he said, it was just a…it was only the once. And it was ages ago. Right after my divorce, and I was going through a bad patch, and I don't think that things like that should be thrown up in a person's face just because—”

“Julia,” Michael cut in. “You don't have to explain.”

I took a sharp breath. “No, of course I don't. How stupid of me—it doesn't matter.”
Shut up, Julia, while you still have a shred of dignity left.
“Tea?”

Michael acted as if I hadn't just humiliated myself in front of him—it was quite a decent thing to do. He made a fresh pot of tea while I collected the others' mugs. I sat at the table with the crank letter in front of me and pulled out my phone, idly checking email. Up popped an alert I'd set up for Rupert's name; it had a link to a video.

“What's this?” I asked. Michael sat beside me with our tea. I clicked through, and the video began. The camera panned a small crowd standing inside against a large window. Someone was speaking; neither the sound nor the picture was sharp. The overlaid title read: “Rupert Lanchester Threatens Power to the People's Kenneth Kersey.”

The title sent a shock of fear through me, but as the two-minute video played, I sighed with relief. “It's only a clip from a news conference,” I said to Michael. I could see Dad near to the front while Kersey read the company line—we care for the environment, we protect birds, blah, blah, blah.

“That isn't true,” I said. “They won't even acknowledge scientific research into wind farms and where they should and should not be placed.” I frowned. “I don't remember when this was—or where.”

“October,” Michael said, with his eyes on my phone. “In Cambridge.”

I squinted at the image on the screen. Through the window, I could see people walking by on the pavement and across the way a stone building with gargoyles on each side of the door. It looked familiar, but I couldn't place it.

All at once, Dad's voice rose above the murmuring. “We won't put up with this—the people do have power, and we will speak. You must know you'll pay for this in the end.” The video ended.

So, not innocuous after all. “Dad's not against wind farms—he's never said that. He's against ill-conceived projects that can have devastating effects on our land. But this”—I pointed to the screen on my camera—“this makes it look as if he has something against Kersey.”

“It's misleading,” Michael said, eyes still on my screen. “It's been edited—did you see the cut? There's a whole piece left out just so that Rupert sounds as if he's threatening Kersey. It didn't happen that way.”

That was good news, except…this was months before I quit and Michael took my job. “Were you there?” I asked.

Michael held my gaze for a moment, his eyes such a pale blue as to be almost colorless. “Yeah,” he whispered, “I was there.”

I opened my mouth to ask why, and Michael's phone rang.

“Sedgwick,” he answered. He listened for a moment and cut his eyes at me. “Yes, sir,” he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He set the phone on the table and pressed “speaker,” but I'd already recognized the voice on the other end of the line.

“Dad!”

I waited a second that seemed forever. “Jools?” I could hear his confusion. “What are you doing with Michael? Where are you?”

My relief at hearing his voice outpaced my anger. “Dad, where are
you
? You must come back—the police want to talk to you about Kenneth Kersey.”

“What do you know about Kersey?”

Michael was shaking his head at me, but I plowed ahead. “Michael and I are the ones who found his body—right along the river near Marshy End.”

“How did that happen? What were you doing there? Michael?”

“Yes, sir,” Michael answered. “I'm here.”

“I don't want Julia involved in this—I don't know how you've got yourselves mixed up in it, but keep her well away.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but you can't order her to keep away—she isn't a child. And she has her own ideas about what's going on—she deserves to be heard.”

“I am not ordering my daughter to do anything,” Rupert said sharply, and then muttered, “I know how futile that would be.”

“Dad, we've found the letter here at Marshy End—in your stack of field notebooks. Michael brought me up here. After all, my car is missing, so I'd no way of driving up on my own.”

A sheepish note crept into his voice. “Jools, I'm sorry I took your car without asking, but you know, I decided it wasn't a good idea to go back to you again—I wasn't sure you'd open your door to me. You said you rarely drove, and I intended to have it back before you needed it. That chain you had on your lockup was far too flimsy—it took nothing to break it. I've a sturdier replacement in the boot, and I'll put it on first thing.”

“And the letter? Do you know who wrote it?”

He sighed. “It's why I went away—I wanted to think it through and have a talk with everyone who might've had a complaint against me. I haven't got far.”

“Magpies, Dad.” I saw Michael raise his eyebrows. I know, I know—I was bouncing from subject to subject, but there was so much to ask him. “Why were you sending me a text about magpies?”

“I thought you might remember it from when you were young.”

“It was our counting rhyme.”

“A counting rhyme for you and Bianca, but magpies were more than that to me. And now they've come back to haunt me.”

“I don't know what that means,” I said. “Dad, Sergeant Flint at
Mildenhall—please
talk with him so this can get cleared up. Then we can concentrate on the letter. All right?”

“Will do, Jools. Please promise me you'll leave this whole murder business to the police—I'll take care of everything.”

The last word broke off. “Dad? Are you there?”

“Sorry, it's this phone—almost out of power. It's a pay-as-you-go, and came only barely charged. I've been nowhere to top it up. I'll go home now and explain myself to Beryl, and after that, it's straight to the police to see this Sergeant Flint. And tomorrow—may I take you to lunch?”

My chin began to quiver. I nodded and said, “Yes, I'd like that.”

“I'm afraid you'll be very disappointed when I—”

“Dad?”

The silence of a dead battery. We both stared at Michael's phone for a moment, until he asked, “Where is he that he wasn't able to charge the phone?”

“Has he seen the video? Who is it that he suspects wrote the letter? Does he know why Kersey was up here at Marshy End?” Those were only three of a head full of questions, and now I must wait for tomorrow to ask them.

“But none of that matters, does it?” I asked, lightly tapping Michael's chest with my fists and smiling. “He's all right. That's what matters—he's fine. I didn't want to let on,” I explained, “but I was worried.”

“Were you? I had no idea.” He said it with a straight face, but I saw that spark in his eyes.

I looked round the kitchen and heaved a great sigh. “I'm starving.”

A grin remained on Michael's face as he crossed his arms. “Right, will they do us toasties at the Wheaten Cairn?”

I stuck the letter back in my bag as we left Marshy End. Michael nodded at it and asked, “Who's your prime suspect?”

“Colin Happer, Gavin Lecky, Oscar Woodcock, maybe Kersey himself.” I ticked them off on my fingers. “What do you think?”

At the end of the drive, Michael looked both ways before pulling out. “And Fenwith?”

“Fenny? No, they're friends—he's like family.”

“Families don't always get along.”

I raised my eyebrows at him—could he be letting a tiny bit of personal information slip out? He gave me a glance and cocked his head
slightly—denial,
confession, I wasn't sure.

“Well, once Rupert talks to Flint and this murder is sorted, we can help him look into it.” I sighed. “Dad's always so generous with his time, it leads people into imagining they've got this bond with him.”

“And Kersey?”

“Of course, it's a terrible thing. But we can let the police continue with their investigation, don't you think?” I put an index finger in the air. “Unless someone is trying to tie Rupert to the murder—just to make him look bad.”

“Bad press?” Michael asked with mischief in his eyes. “He might need a publicist to help clear his name.”

“A
publicist—someone
to make things up like they do for celebrities who're caught shoplifting or politicians who shoot their neighbors? I wouldn't trust a one of them.”

Michael laughed. “Too right.”

We weren't the only ones to think of the pub. “Look—there,” I said, pointing to an older, deep-red hatchback sitting in the Cairn's car park. It had a decal in the window—a hovering kestrel. “That's Gavin's car.”

“Does he live round here?” Michael asked as he switched off the engine and we sat.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Well, I'm not sure where he lives. But he does seem to hang about here—I always thought it was to keep at Rupert about a twitcher feature for the program.”

“Do you think he would write that letter if he didn't get his way?”

“He seems like more a man of action than words,” I said, and felt the color rising in my cheeks.

“Did he know Kersey?” Michael asked, ignoring the foot I had placed in my mouth.

“I don't know how they would know each other, except…” Scenes of visiting the Cairn after filming floated through my mind, and as they did, again I saw Kenneth Kersey sitting at one of the small tables near the bar, but this time, details were added to the memory. It seemed as if the few times we'd seen him there, Kersey had given Rupert a nod of hello. They'd even had an exchange or two.

“What's he doing here?” I had asked Dad the first time, as Basil went up to collect our drinks. “He's not following you, is he?”

“I don't think so,” Dad had said. “He's not on the clock now—just a fellow in for a pint.”

Now I told Michael of the exchange. “I don't recall how many times we saw him,” I said. “I don't remember that he talked much to anyone—but Gavin does stop here, too, so they could've met.”

“So we're back to the murder again?”

I shook my head in frustration. “I didn't mean to go back to it—let the police sort it. But it's difficult to stay away, isn't it?”

We pushed open the door of the pub to find it empty, but voices blasted from the kitchen.

“And who are you to tell me what I can and cannot say?” Gavin shouted loud enough to be heard in the next county. Michael and I stopped in the middle of the room, watching each other and listening hard.

“Say what you like, then, you won't get away with it,” Val's voice boomed. “I can tell you that for certain. I'll have the law on you.”

“I don't take to threats.” Gavin burst out of the kitchen, giving Michael and me barely a glance, and made for the door.

Val came out in a stained apron and stood behind the bar, brandishing one of the largest butcher knives I've ever seen. “Do you want to know what I'll do with your Sardinian warbler?” he called after Gavin.

The door opened and a crowd of noisy young men filled the small space with football talk. Val laid the knife down on the counter carefully and smiled at them as they moved off into one of the rooms. It was only then he saw us.

“Julia, hello, how are you?” he asked as he removed his stained apron and pulled a fresh one off a hook and over his head. “Sorry about that. He's gone, has he? I hope you aren't looking for lunch—I'm not set up for food today.”

“No worries, Val,” I said. “Is there a problem with Gavin?”

“Nothing I can't handle,” Val said as he tied the apron. “Not the sort I like to attract here at the Cairn.” He said this to one of the men, who had come up to the bar and ordered four pints of ale. “Rupert Lanchester drinks here, you know. And we've great plans for a hotel on site—a class
establishment.”

After the fellow left, hands full of ale, I leaned over the bar. “Val, did you hear about Kenneth Kersey?” I asked, and saw Michael turn to me in amazement. Apparently I couldn't leave the murder to the police—it kept coming back into my mind.

Val's expression was blank. “Who's that, then?”

“A fellow who worked for the wind-farm company,” Michael said, with a side glance at me. “He was murdered and found near the river.”

“I remember seeing him here at the Cairn,” I said. “Several times. I thought you might know him.”

“No, don't know him,” Val said as he polished a glass. “Terrible story, though. Terrible. Of course, I can't keep tabs on every single customer, not in such a popular pub as this.” He looked toward the door. “You'll excuse me, Julia—I've a phone call I must make.”

In the car park, Michael stopped to look behind the pub and down to the field. “Val's pigs,” I said. It had been dark on Michael's first visit to the Cairn, but now we could see the wooden pig huts with low arched roofs dotting the grassy field; around each hut the grass was trampled into mud. A few brown
hogs—Berkshires,
Val had told me—wandered about. “Those are all his. He sells them as well as serves them here.”

“This roast pork of his is growing in legend,” Michael said.

“And just beyond the wood over there is the fen I told you about, called Rosemere. It comes off a channel from the Little Ouse. There've been a few rare spottings there—the occasional wryneck, greenish warbler.”

“Wryneck, greenish warbler,” Michael said under his breath as if memorizing them. “Is that a warbler that's greenish, or is that his name?”

“That's his name,” I said. “And what he looks like.” Michael cut his eyes at me and I saw the corner of his mouth go up.

“So, what do you think?”

I knew he wasn't asking about the warbler.

“I think Val knows something about something Gavin has done. I think Val does remember Kersey.” I didn't like saying it. “But would Gavin kill someone over a bird?”

“Maybe Lecky saw one of these warblers at the wind-farm site near Weeting Heath.”

“Yes, but then wouldn't Kersey kill Gavin if he didn't want anyone to know a rare bird had been seen—not the other way round? And such a gruesome way to do it.”

“Still hungry?” Michael asked.

I stuck my nose in the air and walked to his car.

We stopped at a petrol station with a Tesco Express and ate cheese sandwiches sitting in the car. We discussed Rupert's autumn appearances and how they might help promote the new foundation. I wanted to tell Michael about my grand idea—the village summer supper—but chickened out in the end. I am well aware that my talents lie in ironing out details, not in dreaming concepts. Perhaps the summer supper was too much of a stretch.

Traffic thickened on the way back to Smeaton, so it was half past four before we arrived.

“Do you mind if I…?” Michael nodded toward the TIC. Right, the loo.

“Sure, come in.”

Vesta smiled at us. “Good afternoon, you two. Pleasant day, I hope. Let me put the kettle on.”

As Michael disappeared into the loo, I sat down at the little table behind the counter.

“Thanks for taking the whole day on your own,” I said. “I hope you weren't inundated with visitors. Or maybe I hope you were.”

“We were quiet, but that gave me an opportunity to finish my talk for tomorrow's volunteer training—‘The Rococo Furniture of the East Wing.' ”

Michael emerged from the loo and walked toward the door.

“Tea, Michael?” Vesta asked a second before I was about to.

“I won't, Vesta, but thanks. Well,” he said. “See you.”

At that moment it occurred to me that he was leaving. I jumped up and followed him as Vesta turned away.

“Thanks for letting me come along today.”

“Well, I needed your help. And now it'll all be settled with your dad, and the police will find who murdered Kersey.”

“Yeah.”

We stood silent for a moment. Michael stuck his hands in his pockets, and I worried a loose button on my jacket.

“Of course, there's the letter,” he said.

I leapt on the subject. “That's right—we should sort that out.”

Michael glanced out the window. “Do you want to…I don't know…talk about it later?”

“Yes, we really should. Later.”

Michael shrugged. “Over dinner? The Stoat and Hare?”

I nodded vigorously. “Dinner. No, wait—I'll cook. I mean, if that's all right. No need to go out.”

“If it's no trouble.”

“No, no trouble. Eight o'clock?”

“Good, yeah. Right.”

“Right.”

After the door closed, I tried to catch my breath. Vesta had her head down over her mug of tea and the steam had fogged the lenses of her glasses. She glanced up at me over the pearly frames and grinned. “And you accuse me of faffing about,” she said.

I put a hand on my hip in weak indignation. “We're only trying to help Dad. I don't think it would be a good idea to get involved.”

Vesta eyed me for a moment and then said, “Here's your tea—come sit down. Now, what will you cook Michael for dinner?”

Steak, jacket potatoes, and a salad—a blend of spring greens and flower petals that Akash carried from an organic farmer on the estate. I chose strictly on the basis of ease and not because it sounded like a date menu. I got out my bottle of claret, put it away, and got it back out again.

I did the same at my wardrobe, although there I tossed the rejects over my shoulder. At last I settled on a reasonable choice—a butter-yellow nubby cotton jumper with navy trousers—and closed the wardrobe doors. I turned to see the heap of discarded clothes on the bed and began an argument with myself.

I'd better put them away.
No, just leave them
.
But I shouldn't leave a mess.
Why—who's going to know your bedroom looks like a hurricane hit it?
It isn't good for the clothes to be piled up like that—it breaks down the fibers or something.
Looking for a little action this evening, are we?
This is a working meal, so don't even think that or you'll ruin the whole thing.

I walked to the top of the stairs, went back, gathered up the heap in my arms, threw the lot into the wardrobe, and shut the doors.