The Rhyme of the Magpie (7 page)

I left Fenny, turning out of the Guildhall and toward the outdoor market seeking distraction. Mindlessly, I wandered the stalls and bought olives, bread, and cheese, examined a rack of leather bags, and tapped at a string of crystals to set them swaying. I found myself eyeing a fine-looking rhubarb crumble at the bakery stall and thought I'd better eat lunch.

After lunch, my packages multiplied until at last I stood with hands full in front of H&M, contemplating the summer frocks on display and thinking I might ring my friend Caroline to see if she'd like to meet for coffee. Then something caught my eye.

Dad had taught me how important it was to see without directly looking. “Your eyes may be staring straight on, Jools,” he always said, “but be aware of what's going on to either side—your peripheral vision will help you see birds without ever turning your head.”

Now, out of the corner of my eye, I spied a figure a few doors down, looking not into a window as shoppers do, but toward me. I caught my breath and turned my head. Michael was gone, but I had recognized that mop of black hair, and I set after him.

Dodging the slowest walkers on earth, and excusing myself every time I knocked someone with my baguette, I made it to the corner, but too late—he was nowhere to be seen. I tried the birdwatching technique again, and stood staring, unseeing, into a window full of athletic gear, waiting for him to show himself and thinking up a few choice words I'd give him. Nothing.

On the way home, the shopping bags took up their own seat on the train, but the country bus had no extra room, and so I sat clutching them and hoping the container of olives wouldn't leak. Only when I got off the bus in Smeaton did it occur to me that I hadn't stopped to see Beryl while in Cambridge. Should I have? What was the proper etiquette in this case? I didn't know.

Hoggin Hall, a grand brick mansion, had been standing for close on to three and a half
centuries—rebuilt
a hundred years after Henry VIII's troops demolished the original dwelling, which had been built by an abbot in the twelfth century. The current house sat heavily in the landscape, weighed down with artwork, a 130-foot-long Georgian dining set, and five Italian marble fireplaces. Linus wanted to share his family's history—during regularly scheduled visiting hours. In order to do so, a group of volunteers would be trained and stationed throughout the Hall to impart to tourists fascinating Fotheringill details, such as the significance of the canopied bed purported to have been slept in by Queen Charlotte in…oh God, what year was that?

I sat hunched over my work in the back of the TIC, having arrived an hour early to finish the booklet that I would hand out that afternoon during the first volunteer training session. The meeting would include a tour of the Hall by Linus himself, and I believe that's why so many of the pensioners in the village signed on to the project. As volunteers, they would have access to never-before-seen nooks and crannies of the Fotheringill family home.

My good intentions had faded quickly as I'd spent the first half hour of the morning searching the Internet for information about Kenneth Kersey.

The first item had appeared online in local papers yesterday, the day after we found him by the Little Ouse. It was posted soon after the police report went in, no doubt, and carried scant details: a body had been found along the river, foul play suspected. This morning, with the confirmed identification that the deceased was the communications director for Power to the People, the wind-farm company, one of the tabloids had picked up the story and altered it to their own devices: “Fowl Play Suspected in Death.” I rolled my eyes—really, did they not know that “fowl” had to do with chickens and geese, not wild birds that might be disturbed by a wind farm?

In-depth personal details on the man were missing—or perhaps he had no depth. Divorced, wife living in Aberdeen, married daughter taught at an English school in Paris. What read as a terse comment from Oscar Woodcock, managing director of Power to the People, stated that Mr. Kersey's particular talents would be missed. No special interests, no one to say good or bad about him. And so why, then, was he killed?

I thought about that far too long, and rushed through the second half hour to finish up the booklets and get them printed. Linus might want to take a look at the final draft when he arrived at ten—I glanced at the wall clock—in fifteen minutes. We were due to call in at Nuala's Tea Room this morning, to firm up details with her about opening a satellite café at Hoggin Hall that would meet the needs of all those parched visitors. I felt a spark of pride as I realized the tourist trade was picking up.

Before I could hit “print,” the door opened, and I called, “I was about to put the kettle on, Vesta.”

“That's grand,” Michael said. “I could do with a cuppa.”

My chair screeched as I stood abruptly and marched up to him, pointing an accusatory finger in his face. “You were following me
yesterday—spying.
Why?”

Michael responded with an impassive look. “Why didn't you tell me you were off to see Giles Fenwith?”

I gasped at his knowledge. “That's none of your business.”

“It is my business. Did you forget we're working together?” Michael stuck his hands in his jacket pockets, and I could see his body tense, as if he expected a blow. “Who was the other fellow—the tall one, looked a bit like Frankenstein?”

I snorted as I tried to swallow a laugh. “Dr. Peter Drabwell. Still at the university.” I crossed my arms. “You got awfully close to see all that.”

“Has Rupert been in touch with them?”

“Am I in the dock?” I asked hotly, but tamped down my irritation. “No. I wish he'd ring.” But of course, if he did, he wouldn't ring me. I had pushed him away enough times that perhaps he had at last decided to stay away.

Michael relaxed and his voice softened. “We need to talk with him about Kersey. Surely he knows by now.”

“Do you think he saw who did it? Does it have something to do with Oscar Woodcock—with Power to the People? Is the murderer after him? Is he all right? Where's he hiding?” With each question my voice rose higher as panic threatened to choke me, but the tinkling of the bell startled me into silence.

Lord Fotheringill held the door for Vesta and wheeled his bicycle in after.

“Thank you, your Lordship,” she said, and looked from Michael to me. “Good morning.”

Linus removed his helmet and trouser clip. “Good morning, Julia—I'm a bit early. I see we have our first visitor of the day.” He nodded at Michael. “Welcome to Smeaton-under-Lyme.”

The panic doubled as I tried to breathe normally and sort out the racket in my brain. I had to make introductions, but I didn't know what to say. I couldn't let Michael assume the persona of a casual tourist to the village—he might slip away, and at the moment, he was my closest link to Dad. But neither could I introduce him as Rupert Lanchester's assistant—that would only lead to questions and a conversation with Linus that I could not have now.

Clutching at what seemed my only way out, I put my hand on Michael's arm and left it there, saying, “Linus, I'd like you to meet my…friend Michael Sedgwick. Michael, the Earl Fotheringill.”

“Lovely to see you again, Michael,” Vesta said, cutting her eyes at me as she swept past us.

A look of disappointment briefly clouded Linus's face. For a moment, he seemed to size up both this younger suitor and his own dwindling prospects. I felt despicable for deceiving him this way, but it was all I could think of. I felt worse when Linus showed himself to be a gracious and generous man.

“Michael, I'm happy to meet you.”

Michael stuck out his hand. “Sir, it's an honor. Julia can't stop talking about what a privilege it is to work for you here on the estate.”

All right, don't push it.

“Julia's talents are just what the estate has needed—someone detail-oriented to attend to
practicalities,”
Linus said, beaming.

The phone rang, and Vesta answered. “Smeaton-under-Lyme Tourist Information Center, how may I help you?” She smiled at me, which I took as reassurance that it wasn't bad news, as if bad news had become the norm. “Yes, he's here.” She held out the phone to Linus. “It's for you, your Lordship—your butler.”

Linus stepped forward and took the phone with an apologetic look. “Thorne won't ring my own number. He distrusts mobile phones—thinks the Russians might be listening in.” He stepped over to the wall, and answered.
“Fotheringill…Yes,
Thorne, this is he…Yes, Thorne, I know who you are.”

As Linus struggled on with his ancient butler, Vesta moved to the back corner of the shop—not far, but I thought it was a good attempt to give us as much space as possible. I turned to Michael.

“I'm sorry I did that,” I whispered. “It's just, I thought it would be better if we didn't bring Rupert up right now. Please don't leave—I need to know what's going on. I need to help my dad.” I noticed I still had hold of his arm. I let go. “Sorry.”

Michael shook his head and smiled. “No, it was brilliant,” he whispered back. “Listen, I can't sort this out without you—we're better off working together.”

“I hope he's all right,” I said under my breath as I heard Linus finish his phone call.

Michael nodded. “I'm sure he's fine.”

“Right, now, Michael,” Linus said, “how would you like to come with us to Nuala's Tea Room? We'll be sampling her cakes and deciding what to serve when the café opens at the Hall. We need an outside opinion, and I'm sure Julia would love to have you along.”

Michael slipped his arm around my waist and gave me a squeeze. “I'd never say no to tea and cake.”

I elbowed him the moment Linus's back was turned. But lightly—relief at knowing we would work together for Rupert's sake made me soft, I suppose. And I let him leave his arm where it was. Appearances, you know. They're important.

A strong, cold wind blew us up the street. Linus leaned his bicycle against the lamppost in front of Nuala's Tea Room, where the shop window displayed her wares—pedestal plates with an array of fresh cakes and a platter of enormous scones arranged in a delicately balanced pyramid.

Nuala Darke herself greeted us. She was in her late sixties with tight, curly salt-and-pepper hair, short, except for in the back, where she kept it long enough to pull back into a tiny wad of a bun. She was lithe like a dancer, and wore soft flat shoes that always made me think one day she might serve me my sticky toffee pudding en pointe.

We introduced Michael and crowded into a room on the left, one of four, each not much bigger than a cupboard. Nuala had already set out cakes for tasting, and now as we took our seats around a tiny round table, she wiped her hands on her apron and said, “These cakes are my best sellers. I've also included a
Battenberg”—she
nodded at a loaf engulfed in marzipan—“your favorite as a lad, Lord Fotheringill, I remember you told me. I'm sure that visitors to the café would love to know that. It's a connection to your family and its history.” Linus looked pleased.

We tucked in, offsetting the wonderful sticky sweetness with lashings of tea. I relaxed as Linus told us a tale of sneaking a slice of Battenberg into the nursery when he was only five years old and the trouble he got into with his nanny. Michael remembered his mum sending him away to school at age eleven with a surprise—a Dundee cake hidden in his trunk. He hadn't discovered it until half-term break. I succumbed to the lure of reminiscing and offered a baking story of my own—I had once reached for poppy seeds but got black pepper, a mistake undiscovered until Bianca had taken the first bite of cake. While we chatted and laughed, Nuala watched over us like a mother hen.

All the cakes were delicious, of course, but I concentrated on the chocolate, unable to resist the thick frosting that separated the layers and smothered the top. When Linus turned away to speak to Nuala, I took the opportunity to scoop up an errant blob from my plate and stick my finger in my mouth. I looked up to see Michael watching me, his eyes dancing as he reached up and tapped the side of his own mouth. I turned scarlet. What was that supposed to mean—was I talking too much? I gave him a haughty look and glanced away to the door as a man and woman plus two small children stepped in. Outside on the pavement, four bicycles had joined Linus's against the lamppost.

The woman spoke to Nuala in heavily accented English. “Goot morning. Tea?”

Linus leapt up and spread his arms to the newcomers.
“Guten morgen, wilkommen zu Smeaton-under-Lyme. Wie gehts?”

The father burst into a smile and began speaking to Linus in rapid German, aided by the children, who bridged the gap between languages, their words and laughter filling the tea room to the brim. Linus's greeting had exhausted my German vocabulary, and so I seized my opportunity and whipped round to Michael.

“You won't mention Rupert to him, will you?” I asked, raising my voice to be heard. But before Michael answered, my phone rang. I fished it out of my bag and took myself to the quiet seclusion of the ladies', closing the door and leaning against the wall. I glanced at the screen before answering—I knew that number.

“Beryl?”

“Julia, I realize you don't want me ringing you…”

“Have you heard from Dad?”

The tension in her reedy voice was poorly concealed. “No, but I have had a visit from the police.”

I saw a vision of Beryl opening her door to find a policeman, which no doubt triggered a stab of fear in her heart, as she would think something had happened to Rupert. My face went hot with shame. “Then he told you about Kenneth Kersey. Did he say Michael and I were the ones who found the body?”

“Yes, he did. You can imagine my surprise. When we spoke on Sunday, you didn't mention going up to Marshy End. You said nothing about a murder. The police”—Beryl paused and took a breath—“want to speak to Rupert.”

“What did you tell them?”

“What could I tell them? I told the sergeant Rupert had left his mobile behind, and I would ask him to ring the station when I heard from him. Julia, do you know where your father is?”

“He isn't speaking to me, Beryl—how would I know where he is?” My voice bounced off the walls that began to close in on me. It seemed as if Dad had vanished into thin air. I inhaled and exhaled slowly.

“We don't even know how he's getting round. The garage didn't arrange for another car.”

I squeezed my eyes shut before I spoke again. “I believe he has my Fiat, Beryl. That's what he's driving.”

“Your car?” Beryl asked, a sudden sharp edge to her voice. “He's borrowed your car and instead of telling me that, you've let me worry and imagine all sorts of terrible things?”

“I didn't lend it to him, he took it. He has his own key, and he…let himself into my lockup. Perhaps he didn't have time to ask.” Perhaps he knew I'd tell him to bugger off. “Look, Michael seems to think everything is fine. I'll ask him to ring and tell you himself, all right?”

“Yes, please ask Michael to ring.” What little anger Beryl had mustered had already dissipated. “And I'd like it if you'd stop by one day. When you have a chance.” That was the thing about Beryl—she's always been quick to forgive, unwilling to cling to resentment. I, on the other hand, held on to it for dear life.

“Yes, sure.” I rang off and glanced in the mirror before I returned to the tea room. In horror, I saw that smears of chocolate frosting formed parentheses around my mouth. I wet a towel and cleaned myself up.