The Rhyme of the Magpie (16 page)

I turned with delight to see Stephen Fenwith approaching. The sunlight caught a red tint in his short curly hair—the curls were from his dad, but I knew the red was from a bottle. His turquoise frames matched the scarf wrapped round his neck. A geranium-red jacket and tight burgundy denims completed the look. Color loved Stephen, and Stephen returned the favor.

I gave him a big hug, and he planted a kiss on me, then held me at arm's length and began to fuss with my hair. “It suits you, but I don't know why you didn't come to me.”

I shrugged. “Spur-of-the-moment decision—I thought I'd better do it while I had the nerve.”

Stephen drew a circle in the air with his index finger. “Let me see this uniform.” I twirled. “I
approve—conservative
yet tight in all the right places.”

I snorted. I hadn't seen Stephen since Mum died, but we could always pick up in an instant. “It's so good to see you. How are things? How's the new man”—I dropped my voice to contralto and drew out the name—“Clive?”

“He's gorgeous and brilliant. I told you he teaches math at Sevenoaks in Kent? Proof that opposites attract.”

“Not true,” I said, hooking my arm through his, “you're gorgeous, too.”

“And you? Anyone on the horizon?”

“No.” But I spoke too quickly, and I saw Stephen raise an eyebrow.

“All right, darling,” he said. “I'm on my way to see Mum—she's told me what happened. Do you have any news of Rupert?”

I shook my head, my good spirits sinking back to earth. “There's been a murder involving someone he argued with, he's had a crank letter that might be more serious than a crank, and now he's been
taken—kidnapped,
Stephen. We have no idea if he's all right.”

“Your dad will always be all right,” he said, putting an arm round my shoulders and walking me back to the TIC. “Mum said you stayed at the house last night—rallying round and all that.” I made a noise of quasi-agreement. “Can't the police track Rupert's mobile? Isn't that what they do on all the television shows?” Stephen asked.

“Well, he's…it's just that…” I stared unseeing ahead of me. “My God, where is his mobile? Does he still have it? Have the police tried?” The pilot light inside me ignited as I snatched at this tiny hope. “Thank you,” I said.

“And that other business?” he asked, making me look him in the eye.

I had released my anger onto Stephen, too, when Dad and Beryl had married, but I had kept certain accusations—of which I was now quite embarrassed—to myself. Beryl was Stephen's mother, after all. He, too, had been shocked, but took a view similar to Bianca's, asking why couldn't we let them be happy.

“I shouldn't've acted that way, I know. I'm all right now.” Mostly.

“Julia Ruby Craddock Lanchester,” Stephen said, holding on to my shoulders for a good talking-to, “you are more than all right—you are fabulous.” His tone softened. “You remember that.”

I blushed. “I miss you,” I said. “You're so far away.”

Stephen laughed. “It's only London. Bee is in Cornwall—now, that's the ends of the earth.”

I gasped, remembering the family news. “Did Beryl tell you—Bee's pregnant!”

“I didn't know—the fourth. What do you think—Etienne? Estelle? Say,” he said, giving me a conspiratorial smile, “you wouldn't want to put a couple of quid down on whether or not they'll double the ‘E,' would you? Ethan Eberhardt? Evita Esther?”

“Stop,” I said, laughing. “You don't want to give them any ideas. Will you stay the night in Cambridge? I'll be there when I finish work.” I could just do with an entire evening with a good friend.

“I can't, but I'll see you before I go back,” Stephen said. “We've two royals coming in tomorrow ahead of a huge party at Kensington Palace. It's quite hush-hush. I must put the fear of God into my people.”

I walked him up the road to his car. “Stephen, I saw Fenny this morning.”

“Dear old Dad,” Stephen said. “How is he?” He tried for a light tone, but there was always a note of sadness when the subject came up.

“Fine, I suppose. It's just that…I always thought that Fenny and Rupert were close friends.”

Stephen's eyebrows shot up briefly. “Did you? Well, perhaps Rupert thought that, too. Dad can put on a good show when it suits him, but he's always been eaten up with envy. He so easily forgets all the times Rupert saved his skin—like that A-levels fiasco.”

This rang no bell. “What A-levels fiasco?”

“You hadn't heard that one? A few years ago, Dad bought exam answers on the black market and fed them to his students. Because he wanted them to do well and get into the university of their choice? No,” Stephen said with a chuckle. “Because if the students he tutored did well, it would make him look good. ‘Giles Fenwith creates brilliant
students'—that's
what mattered.”

“How did Rupert get him out of that?” I asked as Fenny fell another notch in my estimation.

“Dad asked for help—told Rupert that he thought he was buying study guides for his students, not the actual exam answers. Rupert chose to believe him and pleaded his case.” Stephen let out a sigh. “And so it goes.”

Vesta came up as I stood watching Stephen leave. “An old friend?”

I nodded, smiling. We retreated to our worktable with our sandwiches. “How annoyed with me do you think Linus is?”

“Not annoyed—he was worried for you. And he was a bit embarrassed about the police. It seems that when Thorne went to the door, he didn't believe the two PCs were real, thought they were thieves casing the joint, you know. And so”—she giggled—“he rang for the police and a whole other set of PCs came out.”

I snickered. “Poor Linus.”

“Julia, I saw that idea of yours on the computer—the summer supper. I think it's splendid. You'll get his Lordship to come round, I know you will.”

“If I don't lose my position first,” I said, head in my hands. “I can't believe I ran out of here and left the place wide open.”

“Good thing Michael came looking for you.”

“Yes.”

The phone rang and Vesta answered, beginning a conversation about the Suffolk walking festival. I remembered my revelation about Dad's mobile and rang Flint.

“No phone at the site, Ms. Lanchester. We have tried ringing Rupert's number, but as you say, the battery must be dead.”

And I didn't suppose Dad's captor would charge the phone for him.

His captor. My stomach began to tie itself in knots. I reached for my phone again. Any action was better than inaction. I rang Dad's number.

No answer, of course—but here's a curious thing. The call did not go straight to the usual “unavailable” announcement signaling a dead battery or a switched-off phone. Instead, it rang and rang, as if it were in working order. As if someone should answer.

We were quiet the rest of the afternoon. I continued to ring Rupert's phone every few minutes while pricing wall racks online—we would soon have more leaflets than slots. Vesta sat over a last cup of tea, reading my copy of
Varsity
.

“Julia, there's an article here that mentions Rupert. Did you see it?”

I looked over her shoulder and saw the headline: “Shell Game for Magpies: Charges of Faked Research Follow Popular Birdman.” My eyes flew over the few paragraphs. According to an email from an anonymous source, “certain discrepancies” had come to light concerning a study on the intelligence of magpies conducted by former Clare College lecturer Rupert Lanchester several years ago. Another former Clare College fellow, Giles Fenwith, had removed his name from the research, which the university had refused to publish. Dr. Peter Drabwell was quoted as calling for an investigation into the matter. “Fenwith,” Drabwell was quoted as saying, “apparently knew nothing of the matter.”

I felt a stab of pain as if the knife had been plunged into my own back, not my father's. “It's him—them. Giles Fenwith and Peter Drabwell. They did this to Dad. All those years ago, Rupert's influence saved Fenny's reputation. Dad set him up as a tutor in
Cambridge—better
than teaching at some Merseyside technical school, isn't it? And this is what a man gets when he helps a friend?”

Vesta got up and guided me into a chair. “Sit. Catch your breath. Then explain what all that means.”

Before long, Vesta would be an expert in the recent history of the Lanchester family. In this latest installment, I explained about the letter and listed my suspicions about its author, ending with Fenny and Boris Karloff, aka Dr. Peter Drabwell. Were they academics turned thugs—now guilty of abduction?

“I won't be alone this evening,” I assured Vesta as we closed for the day. “I'm going back to Cambridge to stay with Beryl. Sergeant Flint will give us an update on their progress.”

Such as it was. I stopped at my cottage to gather a few things, but found myself reluctant to leave. I filled the feeders, made a cup of tea, and sat on the terrace with my
Observer's Book of British Birds,
browsing the pages, which I knew by heart. If Michael had been there, I'd've given him a rundown of my favorite garden birds—robins, coal tits, chiffchaffs. I looked up as a fat wood pigeon descended on the tray feeder and scared away a cluster of little birds.

I finished my tea and set off for Cambridge, but I hadn't got far before a dark-red Subaru overtook me, pulling in front and causing me to slam on my brakes.

Gavin Lecky hopped out of his car, as did I.

“What the hell are you doing?” I shouted.

He marched up and came close. “Did you set that copper on me?”

I stuck my finger in his face. “Do you know where my dad is?”

“No, I don't know where he is—did you tell them I did?”

“What have you and Daffy got planned, Gavin? Have you been following Rupert around, harassing him? Are you trying to make him look bad so that you'll have a chance at a television program of your own?”

“Ah, Happer's clueless if he thinks he can replace Rupert.” Gavin backed off, crossed his arms and leaned against my Fiat. “I don't want that—but rare birds, they deserve something. People would like that sort of thing.”

“Well, you should talk to Michael about it,” I said. Gavin gave me a sly look. “Anyway, what did Flint ask you that was so bad?”

Gavin stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. “Coppers make me nervous. I've got form—GBH.”

GBH—grievous bodily harm. Gavin must've spent a few months in prison for that.

“It was about six years back,” he continued. “Some eejit dropped his camera right on top of a reed warbler's nest at Tetney Marshes, and we had a bit of a set-to.” Gavin shrugged. “I broke his jaw.”

Not many would come to violence over a bird. “You knew who Kenneth Kersey was, didn't you? You know he's dead.”

His eyes cut to me and away. “Yeah,” he said quietly, “that was convenient, now wasn't it?”

“Did you meet him at the pub?”

Gavin got in my face again. “It's too easy in this country to pave over nature. I won't be a part of it. A misplaced building is lost habitat. I won't be told what I can say and what I can't say—nobody orders Gavin Lecky around.”

I shrank away, hoping he wouldn't notice. A penchant for violence, explosive anger—when I added up these bits of information, the sum was the possibility that he had taken revenge on the wind-farm fools by killing Kersey. I moved slowly to my car door, but remembered something else.

“Were you talking with Val about Sardinian warblers?”

Gavin's look became guarded. “When?”

“At the pub after the meeting at Marshy End.”

He looked past me and was silent for a moment. “What's this about Rupert? The coppers wouldn't say. Is he in trouble?”

I feigned interest in my car keys. “No, Gavin, he's fine. Sorry, must run.”

The drive to Cambridge seemed to take no time at all as I kept busy assigning blame first to one person then another—no longer able to distinguish between the guilty letter writer, the guilty murderer, and the kidnapper, I threw everyone in the same vat. Light was beginning to fade when I turned onto our street and saw, just ahead of me, two magpies sitting atop a garden wall. My heart leapt—two for joy. Perhaps there would be good news today. At the house, I saw Stephen's car parked in the drive, and in front was Michael's sea-green Fiat 500.

I knocked, but opened the door right after, sticking my head in and calling “hello.” Beryl emerged from the kitchen looking wan, but gave me a generous smile. I kissed her on the cheek. “Is Stephen here?”

She nodded. “He and Michael went down to The Eagle for a pint.”

I frowned. “Do they know each other?”

“They do now,” Beryl said. “When Michael arrived, he asked for you, and Stephen might've thought…well, the next thing I knew the two of them were heading for the pub.”

This could be trouble. I had known Stephen my entire life, and he could tell God knows how many tales on me—I only hoped he wasn't regaling Michael with any of them at that moment. “Should I go down and fetch them?”

“No, they'll be back soon. Thanks for asking Stephen to stop—we've had a lovely afternoon. Come help me in the kitchen.”

Beryl already had a good start on a meal—beef simmered in red wine. Roast potatoes had just come out of the oven. I started on the salad.

“You didn't have to do all this,” I said, happy that she had. We'd spent many a Sunday lunch with Beryl, and I knew her cooking well.

She shrugged. “Keeping busy helped. Stephen can't stay, but I've asked Michael.”

I heard voices on the path and headed for the door. Just as I reached it, a huge roar of laughter erupted from the front step. I flung the door open, and Michael and Stephen froze at the sight of me.

“What's so funny?” I asked.

Stephen walked past me and said, “I was telling Michael about your Mel Gibson fetish.”

“Was that necessary?” I asked. Michael said nothing, but his lips twitched.

“It doesn't do to keep secrets, darling,” Stephen replied, patting my cheek. “Does it, Michael?” he asked over his shoulder.

“No, it doesn't,” Michael said.

Stephen said his goodbyes, and during dinner the three of us kept our eyes on our phones and our ears out for the door while maintaining idle chat.

“Everything all right at the tourist information center?” Beryl asked.

I nodded. “Visitor numbers are picking up, and we're staying busy.”
Sparkling conversation, Julia—you sound like a quarterly report.
“We might have an outdoor summer supper.”

“On the green?” Michael asked.

“No, a string of tables down the high street.” I rushed on, telling them about my big idea, hoping it didn't sound too crazy.

When I finished, Michael said, “There'll be great interest in that across the board—farmers, gardeners, chefs, families. A combination of food, history, and
activities—that's
brilliant, that is.”

My face flushed with pleasure. “Really? I haven't quite persuaded Linus yet.” That was an
understatement.
“This is a leap for me.”

“You have always been an excellent planner,” Beryl said.

“I'm not very good at the big picture,” I replied. “I'm more used to dealing with the minutiae of events—renting the champagne glasses, counting out the knives and forks.”

Michael smiled and shook his head. “I can come up with a hundred ideas, but I'm the one who forgets to order portable loos for an outdoor company picnic with two thousand people. There's a crowd you don't want to face after they've each had a few pints of cider.”

At last, Flint rang Beryl. She put the call on speaker, and we all heard the sergeant say that the investigation was proceeding and they were doing all they could. In other words, there was no sign of Rupert and no word from his abductor. They had, at least, tracked down the women walkers who had stopped to camp outside of Lavenham. They did not get the number plate of the dark car, and they had no idea their fellow camper was Rupert Lanchester. They'd heard of him, of course, but had no telly at home, and so had never seen
A Bird in the Hand
.

It wasn't good news, but it was news and it would have to do for the moment. I heard that sense of determination in Flint's voice and was grateful.

The evening had turned out fine, and when we stood to wash up, Beryl opened the door to the back garden. In the dark, a constant call of
pink-pink-pink
sounded. Michael perked up his ears. “Blackbird,” he said to me.

I grinned at his eagerness. “Yeah, blackbird.”

Beryl went to her bath, and Michael and I finished cleaning the kitchen, after which I brought my mum's magpie picture down to the sitting room.

“Magpies,” Michael said. “What a surprise.” He studied the artwork and read the label on the back. “Is this what Rupert was talking about?”

“Maybe.”

“Did you see any today?” Michael asked.

I smiled. “Two. Just as I got here.”

“Two—that means good news, then.”

“We're running out of time for good news today,” I said.

Beryl came in wearing her terry robe. “I've a bit of good news,” she said, taking an envelope from her pocket. “This letter arrived a few weeks ago. Rupert didn't want to say anything about it—afraid it would sound as if he were bragging, but he wouldn't mind you knowing.”

Beryl looked pleased—her cheeks were flushed and eyes shining as she handed it to us.

It was from the former president of Clare College, where Dad had been a fellow, informing Rupert that his name was being put forward for the Queen's birthday honors list because of his exceptional work for the nation.

A tide of emotion rose up inside me, filling my eyes with tears. I looked from Beryl to Michael. “My God—he could be knighted.”

“He's tried to downplay it,” Beryl said, “but he's really quite chuffed. I knew you'd be pleased.”

“This is wonderful. Do we need to do anything?” I asked.

Beryl shook her head. “No. The person doing the nominating asks for letters of support from people who know Rupert well, who've worked with him. I'm sure it's been no trouble finding them.”

“Did you know about this?” I asked Michael.

He shook his head, smiling. “He never said a word to me. But you see now—the great impact he's had, how he has affected people.” Michael's eyes were like blue flames. “Rupert's spent his life teaching about how we're all
connected—birds,
wildlife, people. Acknowledging his work is huge. This”—he tapped the letter—“is proof that you can make a difference.”

Here was a Michael I'd seen little
of—enthusiastic,
passionate. I was enchanted. He caught my smile and tried to shrug it off, his cheeks two spots of pink.

“But we won't know if he's got it, will we?” I asked. “Not until the official announcement in June. He'll be so pleased, really. Can you imagine—Sir Rupert?” I giggled.

“Well deserved,” Michael said.

We all three gazed at the letter, a warm glow amid darkening prospects.

“Shall we have some cocoa?” I asked, delaying the end of the evening, giving the two magpies one more chance to prove their worth.

“Yes, let's,” Beryl said. “Will you make it?”

I stood, and so did Michael. “Let me help.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “You sit.”

I stood over the pan waiting for it to simmer, alternating between a warm glow inside and a sharp pain in my stomach. It isn't easy having one good thing and one terrible thing inside you at the same time. At last, I stirred in the chocolate, poured up the mugs, and added a tot of brandy to each.

When I returned to the sitting room, it was to hear Beryl say, “I know he appreciates everything you're doing.” I served our cocoa, and Beryl made her excuses. “You don't mind, do you, if I take mine to bed with me? I'm sure it'll help me sleep.”

When she'd gone, Michael put his arm round me and I laid my head on his chest.

“Who's got him, Michael?” I asked. “Why was he taken—what good will it do someone to kidnap him?” I didn't expect an answer, and didn't receive one. “Thanks for staying this evening. It helped to have the three of us.”

“Stephen stopped in the village to see you today,” he said.

“How did you know that?” I asked.

“He told me,” Michael said.

“Mmm.” I put on a mock frown and looked down my nose at him. “You haven't been spying on me again, have you? In the village, as you did in Cambridge that day?”

“I've never been to the village except to see you,” Michael said, but his eyes took on the color of a dull sky. “Why? Have you seen someone?”

“I don't know—I just get the feeling someone's right round the corner, watching. Just nerves, probably.” I looked down at our entwined fingers. “I saw Gavin on the way here—he stopped me on the road.”

I felt Michael's hand tighten. “What did he want?”

I told him about the encounter. “Do you think that seeing a Sardinian warbler at Weeting Heath would stop construction of the wind farm?”

“Does he think so?”

“Maybe—at least I think that's what he was talking about. I should try to find out more.”

“You can't do that, Julia—try to get information out of him. You don't know what he's capable of.”

“I can do if it concerns my dad—if Gavin knows something.”

“Does he?”

I gave a reluctant shrug. “He respects Rupert—I don't believe he would harm him. But I don't think he cared for Kersey at all.”

“Tell Flint—leave it with him. All right?”

“Yeah.”

“I can't get that video taken down, but I'm trying to get it buried,” Michael said.

“Buried online? How?”

“I've uploaded loads of clips from the show and reposted older articles about Rupert. So that when someone searches his name, the positive news comes up first and the video is pushed far back.”

That jogged my memory. “Look at this,” I said, leaning forward and rummaging through my bag until I found the
Varsity
.

He read through the short article, frowning. “This is a hoax. That research wasn't flawed—other scientists came right after Rupert and replicated it.”

“Have you read the study?”

Michael nodded. “He gave me a copy.”

I squinted, trying to envision Michael in a lab coat, another stab in my guessing game into his past. “Did you used to be a scientist?”

He grinned but didn't answer, instead nodding to the paper. “Did you show this to Flint?”

I shook my head. “Too many other things vying for top spot in my brain. I'll tell him tomorrow.” My eyes watered as I tried not to yawn.

Michael stood. “You should get some sleep.”

“I don't want you to go,” I said as he pulled me up off the sofa and we took our mugs into the kitchen. There, we stood in each other's arms and I sighed deeply. A
ping
sounded from my phone, sending an electric current through both of us. Past eleven o'clock, any message now could only be important—but good or bad? We flew into the sitting room, reached the still-lit screen, and read the text:

RL @ ME