The Rhyme of the Magpie (13 page)

Michael arrived wearing a fresh set of clothes himself. I'd seen him only in casual
attire—jumpers,
canvas trousers—but all good quality. Now he'd stepped it up a notch with smoky-brown wool trousers and a midnight-blue blazer. He carried a bottle each of white and red. He opened the red—God knows how much it cost—and asked if I needed help.

“No, I'm doing all right,” I said. But he took the plates from me and set the table, and pulled the heavy skillet out of the oven when the steaks were finished. All the while, we talked about Rupert, the video, the murder, and the letter.

“It won't be possible to trace who posted the video,” Michael said. He stared at the table as he twirled the stem of his wineglass between thumb and finger. “You can do all sorts of things on the Internet without taking
responsibility—clean
up someone's life or destroy it, whatever you like.”

“That video should be taken down—maybe Dad has talked to Flint about it.” I pushed the last of my potato around my plate. “I wonder how it went today.”

“He should be home now. Why don't you ring him?”

I shook my head. “No, he needs time to settle in. I don't want to meddle—I'll see him tomorrow.” We finished the last of the wine, and I said, “I'm sorry there's nothing for pudding.”

Michael got up and cleared the table. With his back to me, he said, “I've a box of chocolates in my coat pocket. I wasn't sure I should give them to you. I didn't want you to get the wrong idea.”

Too late, I fear.

We took coffee on the sofa. The chocolates were Belgian and exquisite. Good thing it was a small box, but too bad there was only one filled with cognac.

“These are fantastic,” I said.

“I remembered you like chocolate,” he said, a smile tugging at his mouth. I blushed, but smiled back. “They were a recommendation from my sister. Thought I'd give them a try.”

“You've a sister?”

“I have two sisters, older than I am. And an older brother.”

“That must've been a houseful. My sister has three—the fourth on the way.”

“A boy, isn't that right?”

I checked to see if he was teasing, but his eyes were a calm sea blue.

“One for sorrow, two for joy; three for a girl, four for a boy; five for silver, six for gold; seven for a secret never to be told; eight for a wish, nine for a kiss; ten for a bird that's best to miss.”

My eyebrows shot up. “I thought you didn't know it,” I said.

He shrugged one shoulder. “I must've had it in an old nursery book.”

I went to take a drink of coffee, but my mug was empty. I set it on the table with extreme care, as if the slightest noise might upset the equilibrium in the room.

“How did that happen?” Michael asked, nodding toward the small bruise.

I held out my hand to admire it. “I went to my lockup yesterday—the idea came to me that perhaps Dad had left the letter when he borrowed my car.” I told Michael what had happened—the rowdy boys and their antics, my rescuers. Michael's face got redder and redder.

“You mean to say the boys followed you to your lockup? Did you see them?”

I shook my head. I hadn't seen them on my way, which was odd—the boys were never difficult to spot, they made too much noise. Still, I'd heard them laughing. Regardless, I wasn't interested in puzzling it out. “Linus will take care of them.”

“Let me take a look at this.” Michael took my right arm, pushed up the sleeve of my sweater, and cupped my elbow in his hand. His hands were warm and dry, and as he stroked my arm, he left behind a tingling trail on my skin. He wiggled each finger gently and traced the edges of the purple mark, lingering far too long over a bruise the size of a ten-pence piece. I held quite still and hoped he didn't notice my pulse quickening.

“Does it hurt?” he asked, his eyes flickering up to mine.

“It's just a little bruise,” I said. But I didn't pull away.
He's only being professional,
I thought. Perhaps I'd got his background all wrong. “Did you used to be a doctor?”

The corner of his mouth drew up. “You thought I used to be a salesman.”

“Did you sell medical equipment?”

He looked up, and we both laughed. He continued to caress my hand, and my fingers curled round his. The lamplight created a glow that encircled us—the only two people in the world.

“I should go.” But he didn't move and his eyes, a blue of the evening sky, asked me a question.

“Stay,” I answered.

We eyed each other, each with a secret smile. It had been so long, I'd almost forgot how much fun this moment could be—standing on that precipice, about to dive in. Fun and a bit scary.

He pulled me toward him. His lips were warm and soft and sweet. A hint of chocolate. We followed the first kiss with another and another before pausing to catch our breath. He started on the buttons of my cardigan with tender insistence. I stood and pulled him off the sofa. It took us a while to get all the way up the stairs to my bed, and we left behind us a trail of shoes and trousers and
sweaters—saving
the best for last.

Was he accommodating? That word doesn't begin to…well, those details are best saved for my sister.

We had knocked into my wardrobe on our way to bed, which had opened the latch, allowing a mountain of clothes to tumble out. The low light burning from a small lamp beside us revealed the disarray of my bedroom, and now that we were at a point to notice our surroundings, Michael eyed the heap.

“I was tidying earlier,” I said.

“Is that what happened?” he asked. “I didn't think I'd taken all that off you.”

We lay tangled up in each other, Michael stroking my back. He kissed my forehead and I traced the white line high on his cheekbone. “How'd you get that scar?”

“That? Got in the way of my brother's fist when I was about fifteen.”

Another piece of his past—fighting brothers. I filed that away and yawned. He reached across me, switched off the lamp, covered us with the duvet we'd pushed aside, and put his arms round me. I snuggled in for the night.

I awoke to the loveliest gray sky—really, sunshine can be overrated. A gray sky sets off the new green of the oaks and makes a fine backdrop for a black rook gliding past. I was alone in bed, but I knew Michael hadn't gone far—I heard stirrings downstairs and saw his shirt on the floor. I got out of bed and picked it up.
Don't do it, Julia,
I told myself.
Don't put it on
.
It's such a cliché—woman dons her man's clothes for that morning-after sexy look.
I slipped my arms in the sleeves, pulled it round me, and was admiring myself in the mirror when Michael walked in.

My face went red. It was that awkward moment in the light of day after a night of intimacy—and here I was looking the right fool in his clothes.

He had located his trousers and put them on, and now stood with two mugs of tea in his hands. He gave me one, took my face in his free hand, and kissed away my insecurity. “Good morning,” he said. His eyes were the blue of a calm sea.

“Good morning.”

We settled on the floor next to the low window, using the pile of pillows we'd thrown off the bed the night before, and looked down into the garden, watching the birds on the feeders.

“Goldfinch,” Michael said. “And that other one under the seed table—it's a finch, too, isn't it?”

“It is
indeed—chaffinch.
Well done.”

“It's only a start.” His hand, resting on my thigh, began a journey north.

Regretting we'd come to this moment, I said, “I'll need to get to work.” We stood, and Michael took my empty mug. “Vesta will know what's happened the moment she sees me. I don't quite know how she does
that—understands
things before I even tell her.” I smiled at him. “She'll be pleased for us.”

“Not as pleased as I am,” Michael said.

“Will you stay? Dad'll be here later for lunch.”

Michael shook his head. “I'll leave the two of you to it.” He collected his clothes, finally tracking down his socks, which had fallen through the stairs to the floor below. I exchanged his shirt for my bathrobe.

I let him open the door, and Michael pulled hard to get a space wide enough to pass through. “You should get that fixed.”

“So I've heard. I'll tell Linus about it.”

Michael walked out, but put his head back in. “Have dinner with me this evening.”

My face flushed with pleasure. “Yeah. I'd like that.”

He watched me a moment. “Good. There's a French place near me in Haverhill—we could try it out.”

On his home turf. Must remember to stash a clean pair of knickers in my bag. “Sounds lovely.”

I had a shower after he left, my mind buzzing with the goodness of life. I intended to ring Bianca, but I ran out of time, and as I hurried along the pavement to the TIC, my mind switched to thoughts of lunch with my dad.

I already had a plan. We'd go to the Royal Oak—Smeaton's other pub—for a bowl of soup and a good talk. I promised myself I'd ask after Beryl and say something nice about her. These thoughts carried me into the TIC two minutes early. I switched the kettle on, dusted the counter, and was refilling the racks when Vesta arrived with a fresh pint of milk and questions.

“How was your evening?” she asked.

My scarlet face and unstoppable grin gave her the answer. I cleared my throat. “Nice—it was quite…nice. We were
strategizing”—I
saw Vesta's eyebrows shoot up—“for the television show and Rupert's upcoming schedule.”

“Yes, I'm sure you were.”

“I'm having lunch with my dad today.”

“Well, that's lovely, Julia,” Vesta said, looking delighted. “So you and Rupert have sorted everything out?”

There she goes again, understanding more than I've told her.
I shrugged. “Well, we've made a start.” I turned to face her. “You've a daughter in New Zealand, Vesta?”

“Yes. Debra met a fellow and emigrated not long after her father died. Hard to believe my Des has been gone eleven years.”

Now, that was proper mourning. I stuck a strand of hair behind my ear and looked at the floor. “My mum died last August. Dad married Beryl not six months later.”

“And you think that's too soon?” she asked. I met her eyes as that throb of anger swelled, but before I could speak, Vesta continued. “Couldn't it be a testament to how happy their marriage was, that he would want to do it all again?”

The bell above the door saved me from replying and signaled our workday had begun. We continued with a steady dribble of visitors and several phone calls until one o'clock. I had been standing out on the pavement giving directions to the abbey ruins and returned to find Vesta readying herself to leave for the Hall and her lecture to the volunteers. She stood at the mirror on the wall, pulled at the ends of her short hair, and applied a coat of pearly pink lipstick.

“I'll close up today, Vesta,” I said as she stood at the open door. “Don't bother with coming back after the training session. I'll see you tomorrow. I'm awfully glad you and Akash are…moving forward.”

She gave me a smart smile.

“Perhaps you were right, Julia—we were slower than we should've been. We were too slow, but your dad was too quick. Is there a middle ground for you, do you think?”

Somewhere between eleven years and six months seemed reasonable, but Vesta didn't wait for my answer. After she left, I attempted to work but instead found myself browsing the rare-bird alert websites for Sardinian warblers, the name that Val had shouted as Gavin stormed out of the Cairn the afternoon before.

There had been a stir of excitement online about recent sightings of this nonresident little warbler—seems as if one or more of them was flitting about the fens of Norfolk and edging its way to Suffolk. That's what had Gavin agitated, and probably what his latest alerts had been about—“coming, my darling,” he'd said. Not a woman, a bird. But it didn't tell me why Val Spore should be so concerned.

My thoughts vanished when I heard the bell. I was like a dog at the track, leaping up from my seat and ready to throw my arms round my father.

Colin Happer. “Daffy,” I almost began, but caught myself just in time. Perhaps he'd come to apologize for showing up at the production meeting with Gavin Lecky in tow, and so I should be gracious.

“Colin, hello. What a surprise.”

Happer took off his cap, revealing his crested blond hair that looked as if he'd used more than a dab of gel on it.

“I say, Julia, it wasn't easy finding you. I had no idea you'd left Cambridge completely. I couldn't find Rupert. This nice woman—is that his wife?—answered the door at the house, and when I said I was looking for you, she told me that you'd moved here and are working in a tourism office.” He took stock of his surroundings, looking over the walls, counter, and racks of leaflets. “Is that true?”

“Apparently,” I said, already weary of the conversation. “I'm actually the manager of the office here and responsible for all the public events and activities on the Fotheringill estate.” I straightened my nametag for emphasis. “Now, why were you looking for me?”

Happer arranged his tie, unbuttoned and buttoned his jacket, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed his upper lip.

“Colin?”

With that prod, he cleared his throat and began.

“I've come to explain about yesterday.” He stopped. I waited. At last, he continued. “I see now that it was a mistake to throw in my lot with Lecky—he's unreliable, and quite frankly, he frightens me a bit. How can Rupert take my proposals seriously if I'm standing side by side with some twitcher? The whole idea is absurd.” As if to prove his point, he laughed in a well-rehearsed manner.

“Haven't you been happy with reporting from the south coast? Rupert thought it went well.” Dad thought that Daffy Happer looked like a puffed-up toad on camera.

“Twice—he's let me on only twice, and both times last year. I want more camera time.” He threw back his shoulders and lifted his chin, tilting his head as if to give me his best side. “I deserve my own program.”

“Sending a threatening letter isn't really the proper way to go about getting one, is it?”

His chin dropped, and his face colored. “Threatening letter? I've never done that.”

“You do send letters, though, don't you, Colin?” I asked, advancing on him. “Many letters to the BBC proposing ideas—perhaps one slipped out to Rupert, complaining because you believe he's standing in your way.”

“That's nonsense, Julia. I'm not a criminal. I'm only stating fact: everyone thinks I should have my own program.”

“Everyone?”

“My fans,” he said with a modest shrug. “In Dorset.”

Consisting of his entire family in the village of Nettlecombe.

“I'm sure they're all thrilled with you.”

He regained a bit of bravado. “And I don't want to share it with that twitcher talking about some obscure sandpiper he says he's caught sight of. It would be wise of Rupert to talk to me
directly—otherwise,
I can't predict what will happen.”

What,
I thought,
you'll send him a box of newts?
Rupert didn't need this now—and he would be coming through the door any second. I didn't want Daffy to be here and invite himself along to lunch.

“Well, Colin,” I said as I ushered him to the door and opened it. “You'll have to take all this up with Michael
Sedgwick—surely
you knew that. Michael has the job of Rupert's assistant now. It's no good talking with me.”

Happer's shoulders sagged. “He's no easier to work with than you,” he said. The meaning of his words seemed to dawn on him a second too late. “Not that you were ever difficult, Julia—I didn't mean that at all. Really, a hard taskmaster is just what's needed on the set of a television program, especially when you've got someone like that layabout Blandy, who never finishes any of his assignments. I know that Rupert values your…”

I'd got him out the door by then and waved goodbye, saying, “Thanks, Colin. Good to know Michael is doing such a fine job.”

The bell tinkled more violently than usual as I slammed the door behind Daffy. I rested against it and thought hard about moving Colin Happer back to the top of my suspect list as the letter writer—the person who was envious of Dad's success and wanted to latch on to his coattails for a bit of fame. True, the number one suspect changed moment to moment, and each name seemed to balance on a thin wire that wasn't supported by any real evidence. Still, I would ask Dad about Happer in more detail over lunch.

The door handle, resting up against my hip, rattled, and I jumped. Linus stood outside. I didn't see his bike, but he did have his helmet under his arm and his trouser clip in hand.

“Sorry, Linus,” I said, opening the door. “Not really good business practice to block the entrance, is it?”

“Good afternoon, Julia. I've left my bicycle on the
pavement—didn't
want to crowd the shop here.”

The space was small, true, but it was only the two of us. Perhaps Linus had spotted a gaggle of tourists coming up the high street headed our way and wanted to be prepared. I returned to my place behind the counter and he walked over, placed his helmet on the counter, and heaved a sigh.

“The boys are denying everything,” he said. “They insist they would never have closed you in your lockup. They say they were out on the high street that evening, and saw someone running from the lane.”

“They're claiming to be witnesses? Who was it—the person they saw?”

Linus shook his head. “They came up with a preposterous description—a tall fellow who looked like Dr. Frankenstein's monster dashing down the road. Do they expect us to believe that? It's worrying, Julia, that something like that could happen here on the estate.”

I tried to see what the boys saw, and a pricking sensation crept up my arms. I rubbed it away. “An isolated incident,” I said. “I'm sure you've put the proper fear of God into them.”

Linus wasn't finished. He shifted the small easel of TIC business cards an inch to the right and stretched his arms out, placing his hands along the counter. “I've something I want to discuss with you, Julia, and I'd like you to hear me out before you make a judgment. I know this may be a sensitive subject for you, but I believe you will understand that we must be open and encouraging to those people and groups who can see the error of their ways and strive to change their public image to be more in keeping with today's concerns about the world around us.”

I nodded politely. I didn't have a clue what he was talking about, but I was fascinated with his presentation. It had all the air of a rehearsed oration, as if he were standing up before the congregation at St. Swithun's and beseeching them to benevolence toward the less fortunate.

“I've been contacted by a British company,” Linus continued after clearing his throat, “that would like to invest in the estate—help us along as we make a go of it all. I'm sure I don't have to tell you how important it is not only for the Fotheringill family seat, but also for everyone on the estate and indeed this part of Suffolk, that we continue to seek ways to balance the need for employment and housing with the important care of the environment.”

He paused, and I took that as my cue. “Yes, Linus, I certainly understand, and I hope you know that we are doing everything we can…”

Linus waved away my concern. “Your work is exemplary. I don't want you to think this is about the TIC at all. It's just that I didn't want this to come as a shock to you. I want you to be open to all ideas that come along. But more importantly, I thought I'd better warn you…”

The yellow flag didn't go up fast enough. The door opened, the bell jingled, and in walked the managing director of Power to the People—Oscar Woodcock.