The Rhyme of the Magpie (17 page)

We stared at the screen. “RL at ME. RL at ME.” I repeated the phrase over and over.

Michael looked from the screen to me, his eyes sparking. “RL—Rupert Lanchester.”

“ME—at Marshy End,” I filled in with a rush.

“Where did it come from?”

Dad—or rather, the number of Dad's pay-and-go mobile phone. I told Michael that I had tried the number all through the afternoon. “Someone must've
noticed—someone
must've heard.”

“Is that text from Rupert? Was he coerced into sending it—just to put you in danger?”

“Dad would never let that happen,” I snapped, fearful that what Michael had said was true. “And it doesn't matter—it's telling us where he is.”

“He couldn't have been at Marshy End all along—Flint said they'd searched the cottage and the area.”

We were whispering furtively, even though Beryl could never hear us up the stairs and down the hall.

“I'm going to find him,” I said. “Are you coming?”

“Ring Flint,” Michael called as I ran to get my bag.

“Yes, on the way.” We got to the door, and I stopped. “Wait.” I wrote a quick note to Beryl that said nothing. “Gone out—see you in the morning.”
Gone to find Dad
—that's what I wanted to write, but the mix of fear and the possibility of joy froze my hand.

I went for my car, but Michael led me to his instead, and just as well—I wouldn't have been good behind the wheel, as keyed up as I was. He drove, and as we hurtled through the darkness, we had the same exchange over and over. “He's all right,” I would say. “Don't you think he's all right?” Michael would insist he was fine, and then we would change roles—he would ask, and I would answer.

I didn't forget to ring the police. Flint answered his mobile, and his voice went from fogged with sleep to totally alert when I said, “We think they've taken Rupert to Marshy End.” I explained, and ended with “We're on our way now.”

“If you arrive before the police, Ms. Lanchester, do not approach the cottage—do not even enter the drive. This could be a trap, and how much worse would it be for Rupert if you were snared as well.” His voice struggled, and I could imagine him pulling on trousers and pushing arms into his old raincoat while trying to talk. I wondered if someone shared his bed. Is this how the police live?

I told him where to find the spare key—but surely he wouldn't need it, because Dad would be there—rang off, and looked at Michael, who was concentrating on the road. “Flint will arrive before we do,” I said. Mildenhall station was only a few miles away from the cottage, and it would be another half hour before we could get there—perhaps a bit less, I thought as I glanced at Michael's speed.

We were closing in when my phone rang. I jumped, and Michael jerked the steering wheel—we were that wound up. The number was Flint's.

“Hello,” I said, my voice catching in my dry throat.

“Ms. Lanchester, Sergeant Flint here. We're at Marshy End, and so far there's no sign of Rupert.”

The carefully crafted world of hope I'd built from one short text came tumbling down.

“He isn't there? Are you positive—have you looked in the shed, he might be hiding or something. The back garden, there's a little playhouse, did you check that?”

“Yes, we've looked,” Flint said. “We've officers at the end of the drive and looking along the riverbank where you found the body.”

I took a sharp breath at his mention of Kersey. “Well, I'll help them when we arrive. I can find him—the text said he was there.”

“You will come straightaway to the cottage. Do not interfere with police business. How far away are you?”

I could see the blue lights of police cars flashing in the distance as we crossed over the bridge—those must be the ones at the end of the drive. “Not close,” I said. “We've another twenty
minutes—perhaps
a half hour—before we arrive.” I cut the line before Flint could respond.

Michael took his eyes off the road for a moment to look at me.

“Stop and turn round,” I said.
“Now
.
”

He slammed on the brakes, and the car almost made the turn by itself.

I directed him back across the bridge that spanned the Little Ouse and then up a narrow lane—barely more than a track—that ran between the other side of the river and a field. “There's a footbridge up a ways,” I said. “We'll be able to cross there and begin looking ourselves, heading toward the cottage from another direction.” Our headlights bounced around in front of us as we hit huge potholes. “You should switch off the lights so they don't see us.”

Lights flashed across on the Marshy End side of the river. The searchers were not far away, but I hoped the distance was enough so that the car's engine couldn't be heard over the low rushing of the river. I held my breath until we were well past them.

“Here,” I said. “Let's get out here.”

“Don't you think we should leave this to the police?” Michael said, pulling to a stop. “We don't know who's out there.”

“My dad's out there, and I'm going to find him,” I said, opening the car door. “You stay here if you like.”

He hesitated for only a moment before getting out, too. “Do you want a torch?”

“No, we don't want to call attention to ourselves.”

He took a long flashlight out of the car's boot but didn't switch it on. “Could come in handy,” he said, taking my hand. “Are you sure about this?”

I pulled him along.

Starlight and a quarter moon—not much to go on, but if we were careful, it would be fine. “I think the bridge is a bit further up.” We stumbled down the narrow path along the low bank, batting away branches of alder and—I heard Michael curse—nettles. The river lapped along beside us. The night smelled of new green growth and last year's decaying reeds, the ground spongy underfoot. We stopped every minute or two and listened. Once, off to our right, a call full of trills and warbles pierced the darkness.

“My God,” Michael whispered.

“Nightingale,” I answered, pausing for a moment. “Beautiful, isn't it?”

I couldn't see the color of his eyes, but I knew he was watching me. “Why do you think Rupert might be up here?” he asked.

I shrugged. It was a guess, at best. But it was action. “We often come up this way and walk across the bridge. The police are back there, closer to the cottage—they haven't got this far yet. And I won't be told to sit and wait.”

“God forbid,” Michael said, and squeezed my hand. “Lead on.”

Another minute or two, and I pointed ahead and said, “There, that's the footbridge. We'll get over it and begin searching.”

At the crack of a twig, Michael's grip on my hand tightened. He pulled me back as we saw a movement ahead. We didn't speak, we barely breathed—we watched. Willow branches hung low and obscured our vision, but a flash of something pale hunkered down near the bridge sent a shiver of fear through me—perhaps Flint was right, this was a trap and someone lay in wait for us. A moment of stillness. No, just a badger on a nightly hunt, I told myself, not Dad's captor.

I dared not call out—I had at least that much self-control—but I was too charged up for more caution. I looked back as a silent signal to Michael and began to creep forward.

Our movement seemed to trigger other movement—I saw it again, badger or person. We froze, and the form stopped. We were only a few yards away when all at once, it made a dash for the bridge—I rushed forward, but slipped on the side of the low bank and gave a shout as my left foot slid into the water.

Arms reached out to seize me. I shouted, flailing, trying to fight off my assailant. My hand made contact, and he yelled in pain.

“Jools!”

“Dad!”
I shrieked.

He grabbed me by the shoulders and pulled me up. I was flooded with relief, sobbing and clinging to him as if he might vanish. He put his hand up to his face, but not before I saw blood trickle from his nose.

“What've I done to you?” I tried to get a better look, but he turned away.

“I'm all right,” he said in a muffled but shaky voice. He took hold of my arm—as if to steady me or himself. “I'm very glad to see you. Is that Michael?”

Michael had appeared at my other side. “Yes, sir.”

“Dad, where've you come from? Did they hurt you? How did you get here? Who had you?”

More questions were ready to tumble out, but they and all the answers would have to wait as shouts of “Police!” came from across the river, and we were under sudden attack from a host of lights that arced across the three of us, down to the riverbank, and onto the bridge.

We raised our hands like bandits in some American cowboy film, and Dad shouted, “I'm Rupert Lanchester, and I'm here with my daughter and my assistant.” For some reason, that sounded funny to me—as if we were introducing ourselves to aliens. It was shock, probably, or the release of all that pent-up fear. I snorted with laughter and, out of the corner of my eye, saw Michael give me an incredulous look. But then he laughed, too. Dad raised his eyebrows at both of us.

“It's you they're searching for, Dad,” I said. “I think they've probably recognized you.” He grinned, and I put my arms around him and squeezed, needing another confirmation that he was real.

“Rupert?” Flint called as he came running over the bridge, raincoat flapping behind him. He bent over, hands on his thighs, breathing heavily, and then stood up and put his hand out. “We're quite glad to see you. Detective Sergeant Flint.” Flint eyed us. “I suppose I should've asked your daughter where to look instead of beginning in all the obvious places. Are you injured?” he asked, noticing the dark smear under Dad's nose.

“No,” Rupert replied, not looking at me. “Just ran into a branch.”

“Are you all right to walk? Can you make it to Marshy End?”

Dad straightened his back at the suggestion that he could possibly be so frail. “I've walked the six miles from Brandon. I'm sure I can hobble on a few more steps, Sergeant.” His voice softened. “Although I wouldn't mind the light from one of your torches showing me the way. Julia?”

“Yes, Dad, I'm coming,” I said. “Michael?”

“You go on,” Michael said. “I'll drive round.”

A couple of officers stayed behind, and the rest of us crossed the footbridge and walked back single file in silence to the cottage. Dad followed me, and I kept turning back to make sure he was still there. He'd pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his nose, but gave me a thumbs-up each time I checked on him.

When we came to the place where Kersey's body had lain, blue-and-white tape still circled the spot. Rupert paused. “Is this where he was?”

“Yes. But we've all the information we need from the scene—we can take down the barrier now.” Flint nodded to a female PC standing nearby before looking back at Rupert. “It's time we hear what you have to say.”

We arrived at the cottage, where Michael stood in the yard with three uniformed officers. He shook Dad's hand. “Good to see you, sir.”

“Thank you, Michael,” Dad said, “thank you for looking after Julia.”

“I don't need looking after.” It was an automatic response, but I saw the gleam in Dad's eye.
Well, if he can joke, then he must be all right.

We moved indoors and straight to the kitchen, keeping our coats on. There was a damp chill indoors, and I reminded myself to come up for an evening or two and get a good fire going to dry the place out. I glanced over at Michael, and my face warmed of its own accord; perhaps he would like to come along.

Flint and Michael stood while Dad sank into one of the chairs and rubbed his hands over his face; it sounded like sandpaper. I wet a tea towel and gave it to him, and he patted my hand before wiping the blood from his upper lip. His nose, swollen and red, looked like a clown's. I filled the kettle and switched it on, leaned against the counter, and wrapped my arms round myself.

My dad, sitting at the kitchen table waiting for his mug of tea.
Look at him, I
thought. He's exhausted and dirty and has no hat on. His face is stubbly, and his eyes bloodshot; he's been wearing the same clothes for days, and it looked it. Still, he had that dash of Indiana Jones about him—after Indy had been chased by that huge rock and those Nazis and a heap of snakes. Tears sprang to my eyes, but I didn't want him to think me weak, so I snapped to, wiping my cheeks and sniffing. I turned to Flint, who had his hands on the back of a chair, leaning forward.

“Can you catch him?” I asked. “He should be put away forever, whoever did this. Who did this to you, Dad? Who is he?”

“He called himself Carl the Case,” Dad said.

“Carl the Case?” Flint's caterpillar eyebrows levitated. “Carl the Case? Are you certain?” Rupert nodded and Flint laughed. “He's been a thorn in my side since I started at Mildenhall. Small-time crook, but he's come to the attention of my detective inspector. I'd love to be able to deliver him up. But kidnapping seems beyond his ken.”

“Indeed it was—he made a pig's breakfast of the whole affair.” Dad shifted in his chair. “Sergeant, is it all right if I ring home before we go on?”

“Yes,” I said, reaching in my bag and handing Dad my phone. “Phone Beryl now—it'll be the best wake-up call she's ever got.”

Dad watched me, as if gauging the sincerity of my newfound concern. I held his gaze, giving a tiny shrug.

Flint nodded, and Dad went off to his study. The sergeant walked into the hall to make his own phone call, and I stood at the sink, getting out mugs and pouring the tea. Michael found the milk and an entire packet of biscuits untouched at the production meeting, and came over to stand next to me. I threw my arms round him in a rush of relief and joy.

“Those two magpies came through, didn't they?” he asked, his eyes a sky blue. “Good news today.”

“I think we're well into tomorrow by now, but yes, they did. And so you must admit that they do carry messages.” I glanced toward Dad's study. “How do you think he looks?”

“Tired, but fine. How are you doing?” he whispered in my ear. I could feel his breath on my hair.

“I'm all right, really.” But made better by his kiss.

Michael and I jumped apart when Dad walked in. He pretended not to have seen anything. He looked lighter, as if bit by bit he was regaining his real self after losing it in captivity. He smiled. “There, now. All's well.”

Leave it to a man to simplify that exchange. I'm sure Beryl collapsed in tears of relief—as I had almost done. “She'll be waiting up for you now,” I said.

“She wanted to drive here straightaway, but I said I was well taken care of, and perhaps she could collect me from the Mildenhall police station. Was that all right, Sergeant?”

Flint stood in the doorway. “Of course, sir. But first, we'll need to hear what happened. Do you know why you were taken?” Flint asked.

Dad shook his head. “I don't think Carl knew why. It was a job he was hired to do. And I don't believe I was the intended victim—he took me instead of someone else. I'd say Carl isn't the sharpest knife in the drawer.”

“We'll need for you to start at the beginning,” Flint said as he pulled out his notebook and pen.

“You want to know why I was camping on the Fotheringill estate?”

“No, sir, before that. You'll need to account for your whereabouts on Saturday and Sunday last. Did anyone see you during that time—anyone who can vouch for your whereabouts?”

“Hang on,” I said, setting Dad's tea in front of him hard and sloshing the tea. “Are you accusing him of murdering Kersey?”

“I am not,” Flint said, keeping his voice even and neutral—an irritating skill they must learn in police school. “Everyone's movements must be accounted for during a murder investigation, Ms. Lanchester.”

“He's doing his job, Jools,” Dad said. He glanced to the counter and at me and asked in pretend innocence, “Is there any sugar?”

I wiped up the spilled tea with a tissue from my pocket, reached for the sugar bowl, and handed it over. “Go on, then,” I said. He gave me a wink, and in went three spoonfuls. He dunked a biscuit and took it in one bite. I shook with anger at this Carl who would starve my dad.

“Did Carl write that letter?” I asked, ready to blame the new villian for all our woes.

Rupert shook his head. “I don't believe so, Jools. The letter”—he looked at Flint—“you know about the letter, Sergeant?”

“I do now,” Flint said. I met his eyes for a moment and then looked away. That had been part of the information we'd held back until disgorging everything the afternoon before at Dad's makeshift campsite.

“I never meant to cause such a stir,” Dad said. “I sometimes take a day or two to myself—to work, to think about new projects.”

“A day or two. A week,” I said.

Dad blushed as he recounted his movements on Saturday when he'd left Cambridge. “That letter was on my mind, and I don't mind telling you that I was worried. I didn't want anyone to know where I was. I thought it would be better to leave the Rover and drive something completely different, so I took it to my usual garage and made my way to your village, Jools, to…borrow…your car.”

“And you were quite welcome to it,” I said.

“Well, no one expects Rupert Lanchester to drive a Fiat 500, so I was free. I stopped off at the Wheaten Cairn on my way up, had a chat with Val and a coffee. Came up here, settled in to have a good think—and to see Kenneth Kersey. He wanted to meet me early on the Sunday morning—eight o'clock. He had something to tell me—well, I thought I knew what it was. Oscar Woodcock had set him to watching me, hoping to find something to discredit me in this battle about the wind farm. Kersey had been hanging about at the Cairn for months.”

“I remembered that,” I said. “You spoke to him.”

“I did—no harm in that. I thought he rather enjoyed himself at the pub, and I believe he came to regret this spying. But he never showed here at Marshy End that Sunday morning. I thought he'd had a change of heart, and so I left. That was about noon. But no one saw me, Sergeant—that was the point of getting away.”

“Did you go directly to camp on the Fotheringill estate?” Flint asked.

Dad shook his head. “I headed west with no real destination. Ended up at a bed-and-breakfast in
Lupton—Cumbria—for
two nights.”

“Cumbria—I was right!” I said to Michael in triumph. He grinned.

Flint turned to me.

“Just as I said he was.”

“It was Tuesday before I heard about Kersey. Although the details were sketchy, it sounded as if it happened near here. But I still didn't know what it would have to do with me. My mind was on other matters, and I wanted to go back to Smeaton and have a talk with my daughter. I wasn't sure how well that would go over—so I held back and set up camp near the brook. I suppose I was getting up my nerve.”

Shame warmed my face. Dad reached over, squeezed my hand, and shook his head.

“It's a lovely spot. I wondered about those old caravans.”

“We're going to do them up,” I said. “Make it a small holiday campsite. Perhaps offer a class on birdwatching.” The thought had just occurred to me. How did I get so full of ideas?

“That's an inspiration,” Dad said.

“Sir,” Flint said. “We wanted to talk with you.”

“You wanted to ask me about Kersey, but I have no information for you. And I had no idea that Michael and Julia were at all involved. I'm so sorry, Jools.” I waved away his concern, and he continued. “I realize now that it was not the best decision I made—staying hidden—but it seemed like a good idea at the time. And it's done now. I'll have to live with the consequences.”

“What consequences?” I asked Flint, alarmed at the thought that Dad might be punished. “He didn't do anything wrong.”

“This is an ongoing investigation, Ms. Lanchester, and we are delighted to have Rupert's input on the matter.” That made me feel better until I realized it didn't mean anything.

“Well, there I was, out of sight, I thought—except for those two women campers, who kept to themselves.”

“Was that you—in the village watching me?” I asked.

“Yes, was it, sir?” Michael asked with a quick look my way. “Because up till now, I've been the suspect.”

“I looked in on you Thursday, but only the once. And after I spoke to the two of you that afternoon, I went straight home—didn't even bother to pack up, because I knew I'd be back the next day to meet you, Jools. Carl must've been watching the house, because
yesterday—well,
Friday morning, whenever that was—he followed me from Cambridge,” Rupert said. “I'd tried to ring you, Sergeant, but you weren't available. So I thought I'd clear my camp, have lunch with my daughter, and then phone you again. Midday, I was about to fold up the tent, when the car turned in.”

Dad's eyes glazed over as if he saw past us and back to that moment when Carl approached. Even though he sat in front of me safe and unharmed, I felt a chill run through me.

“ ‘Rupert Lanchester?' he asked. I said yes. ‘You'll need to come with me.' I asked why, who was he, what was this about, but all he said was that he had a gun.”

I cried out and sank into a chair. Dad patted my hand, but his face had drained of color as he told the story, and now his red swollen nose stood out like a beacon against his pale skin.

“At that point, I didn't think it was my place to argue. The women campers were behind one of those caravans, and I don't believe he had noticed them. But I certainly hoped they saw him.”