The Rhyme of the Magpie (9 page)

I had a mutiny on my hands. I could understand their
disappointment—many
of these people had lived in the village all their lives, but few had ever set foot inside the Hall. This was the day that would change—except now it would have to be another day.

Four or five of them got up and broke for the door. “Come on, we can at least look at the morning room.”

“Wait!” I scrambled toward the library door, afraid that if Thorne tried to block their way, he would be toppled like a dead oak.

A voice rose above the others. “Stop where you are!” The clutch of pensioners turned as one to face Akash, who had an indignant look on his face and hands on his hips. “This isn't the county council's office, it's someone's home. How would you like it if I burst into your house and demanded to see your loft conversion?”

The renegades had the decency to look embarrassed and took their seats again, muttering, but all the fight had gone out of them. We got to work, going over the minutiae of the scheme—how to manage a queue, how to keep children from ducking under the velvet ropes. Someone asked about “those rowdy boys”—four or five twelve-year-olds currently creating mild havoc on the estate—and what would happen if they were to dress up the statue of the first earl as Father Christmas or some such nonsense. I assured them that the boys would be dealt with accordingly.

Fear of another uprising led me to be overly jolly, as if I were an entertainer on stage at the Palladium, and when we finished two hours later, I was drained. I started straight for the sandwiches, but several people delayed me with questions, and by the time I got to the tea table, the plates held nothing but crumbs. There were a few petit fours left, but I didn't think I could face any more frosting.

Akash dropped me at the TIC. On the way, he confessed to having stuck his head in the dining room to get a glimpse of the Georgian table. “You won't squeal on me, will you, Julia?” I told him I'd allow him that for keeping me from being set adrift in a dinghy.

It was after five o'clock and Vesta had closed up for the day—off to teach her back-to-back yoga sessions. She had left me a note: “Julia, I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes, tomorrow,” I said to the piece of paper. “I promise.”

She had added a postscript: “Don't forget the minibus tour.”

Right—that was also tomorrow. I rang the tourism agency in Bury, confirmed the numbers, and gathered leaflets for their packets. I kept one eye on the door, expecting Michael to walk through, but apparently he only showed up when he wasn't wanted. I worked through two cups of tea on three different themed day-tour itineraries of the Fotheringill estate, until I could think straight no longer. Evening had fallen. I locked up and went home.

Inside my cottage, I kicked off my shoes and threw my cardigan on the sofa. I wouldn't let Michael get away—I felt he might have valuable information about Rupert—but first I needed some serious food. I glanced in the fridge, nabbed one of the last olives from my day at the market in Cambridge, and tried to remember the last time I'd done any serious food shopping. An omelet seemed to be in my future—at least, I had a shallot and a bit of hard cheese left.

The knock came as I got out the cutting board. “Julia?” Michael called, and before I could get to the door, he knocked again. “I saw you go in just now.”

I pulled open the door. “I expected you earlier—at the TIC.”

He didn't answer for a moment, and instead looked over my shoulder. “Could I come in? Or do you want to go somewhere else to talk?”

I shouldn't go anywhere with Michael—Fenny said not to trust him. No, wait—that isn't what he had said. Fenny had asked who is this fellow. I didn't know—yet. But given the opportunity, that could change. Plus, I had got hold of the idea that Michael knew more than he'd said so far, and I wanted to know what that was.

“I haven't eaten,” I said.

“Neither have I—shall we go for a meal?” He glanced up and down the street. “Is there somewhere close?”

“Yeah, I guess. The Stoat and Hare has a good menu. Come in,” I said, nodding toward the sofa. “I won't be long.”

I tore through my wardrobe, and held out two dresses for consideration. Too much—I tossed them on the bed. I chose light wool trousers but couldn't settle on a sweater until I came across a lovely electric-blue cashmere cardigan Bee had given me for Christmas that I'd forgotten all about.

When I came down, Michael stood at the kitchen counter and had my
Observer's Book of British Birds
in his hand. He did a mild double take at my
appearance—well,
it's true, I had smartened myself up a bit—and then tapped the page he'd been reading.

“This fellow here—I saw him in your garden today.”

I came closer and looked over his shoulder.

“A blue tit,” I said. I could tell he was pleased at identifying the sweet but quite common denizen of my feeders. I smiled. “You really don't know much about birds, do you?”

“I'm learning,” he said, turning his face to mine. “Although I could use a good teacher.”

He was only a few inches away, and at that moment I realized I had chosen a sweater that was the same color as his eyes. I noticed a small scar high on his cheek. I felt a certain tension in the air.

I stepped away. “Shall we go?”

Michael left his car in front of Pipit
Cottage—everything
in Smeaton-under-Lyme was only a ten-minute walk. On the way, we compared notes on Flint and our interviews. The sergeant had taken the same tack with Michael: a nice chat about birds—although what Michael could offer on that subject I had no idea—followed by the meat of the matter. The betting slip puzzled both of us. “Perhaps Kersey owed someone a great deal of money.”

“Those letters—why would he write it up like that? I remember seeing ‘RM'—is that a racecourse?” I asked.

Michael exhaled loudly and then muttered a few names under his breath.
“Ripon…Redcar…well,
there's Musselburgh Racecourse in Scotland—but the letters are the wrong way round.”

“Do you know a lot about racing?”

“I know a very little about a great many subjects,” he replied, leading me to wonder once again just what his former position had been. I didn't want to appear too interested, but couldn't help
speculating—who
would have shallow knowledge on a broad number of topics? Had he been a London cabbie?

The signboard that hung over the Stoat and Hare showed the two animals dressed in waistcoats and seated at a table, two pewter tankards in front of them. They leaned forward, as if deep in conversation, the stoat with his head cocked and the hare with his long legs crossed. Just two old friends meeting for a pint.

It was a lovely pub, the real thing with stained glass, solid oak bar, warm lamplight, and ample room for locals to stand with their pints and mingle. There were quite a few doing just that when we walked in.

Michael glanced round at the drinkers and said, “Toasted cheese sandwiches, is it?”

“You could do worse,” I said, “but no. They've a proper dining room through there.” I nodded at the brick arch to the left of the bar.

The other room was a world away—white tablecloths and candlelight.

A woman with rosy cheeks and auburn hair cinched back in a tight ponytail approached us. “Good evening, Julia,” she said with a large smile.

“Evening, Peg.” Peg and her husband, Fred, ran the place, which included the ten-room hotel upstairs, the pub, and the restaurant, which always received favorable reviews in the Suffolk papers. I gave myself a night out here every week or so.

“Table for two?” she asked, looking from Michael to me. Her eyes asked a different question.

“Yes, please,” I replied. Peg seated us away in the corner and left us menus and the wine list, and we busied ourselves with reading. When she returned, I ordered the sole and Michael the mackerel; we both had the goat cheese salad.

“Shall I get us a bottle of wine—my treat?” he asked.

I shrugged. “Yes, sure, thanks.”

His eyes ran down the wine list and stopped toward the bottom; he ordered a Sauvignon Blanc. “Do you approve?” he asked me.

I glanced at his selection and nodded, but when Peg left, I said, “Rupert is paying you too much if you can afford that.”

Michael only smiled. “I won't drink a bad wine.”

As we waited for the starters to arrive, I sipped my wine—it was
excellent—trying
to drink slowly on an empty stomach. I watched a table of four be seated near us. Business was brisk for a Tuesday—we weren't going to have the privacy I'd hoped. Michael seemed in no hurry to get to the topic at hand, asking questions about the age of the building and how long the Fotheringill line went back. If I'd had a leaflet in my bag, I would've handed it over.

Finally, I leaned forward. “We need to talk about Rupert,” I whispered.

Michael leaned forward, too. “Can it wait until after we've eaten?”

“No, it can't. How am I supposed to eat without a plan on how to find my father? What if something is wrong?”

“Don't you think we'd have heard if he was in trouble?” He broke off when Peg approached with our salads.

“Sorry,” she said with a chagrined smile. We drew apart, and she set down our plates. “Special evening?”

Michael took my hand across the table and said, “It's always a special evening with Julia.”

“Ah God, Julia, wherever did you find him?” Peg laughed and moved away.

I grabbed my hand back. “Stop doing that,” I hissed. “I have to live with these people.”

“You're the one who started it,” Michael said, shaking out his napkin.

“That was to deflect any questions from Lord
Fotheringill—we
don't have to put on a show for the whole village.”

“What if his Lordship stops in for a pint one evening and hears talk? We should be consistent.”

“Don't be silly. Linus never comes in the pub.”

“He should,” Michael said, losing the teasing tone. “Gone are the days when the lord of the manor could hole up in the castle and order his people about. If he wants to make a go of this whole enterprise”—he swept his fork in an arc, taking in, it looked, the entire estate—“then he needs to drink in his pub and go to the corner shop just like the next fellow. Let the people know they're all in this together.”

I made a mental note to suggest this at our next meeting.
Nevertheless—“Linus
does not give orders,” I said. “He's very good with tenants on the estate.”

My mouth watered from the tangy sweet aroma of the balsamic vinegar on my salad, and I was already light-headed from the wine. Michael held his knife and fork, poised to begin, and so I abandoned my questioning, took up my own utensils, and tucked in.

I tucked into the last half of my salad and returned to the topic at hand. “Now, talk. You know something you aren't saying.”

Michael poured us more wine. “Rupert gets a great deal of fan mail, doesn't he? From all sorts of people.”

I nodded. “It makes him a bit
uncomfortable—all
that praise. He believes the focus should be on the birds. Most of the letters and emails are quite nice, but of course there are a few complaints. And occasionally someone gets a bit…clingy.” I thought for a moment. “Is he being harassed by a fan? Has Mad Maddie resurfaced?”

“Mad Maddie?”

“She lives in Shropshire. Used to send Rupert these gushing, perfumed notes. Once, she made a book where she'd taken photos of Dad and superimposed them on the bodies of birds, and she'd written a long poem titled ‘Ode to the Song of the Rupert.' It got quite creepy. But I think she had her meds changed, and we haven't heard from her for a year or so.”

“He got one recently that was no love letter. It was about three weeks ago. Rupert said he received a…I don't know, a missive I suppose you'd call it—rambling, unsigned. It was from someone who resents his position and influence.”

“A threat?”

“More complaint than threat, he said. But Rupert felt as if he should know who sent it. He wanted your help figuring it out, and said that's why he stopped by last week.” Michael waited a moment, but there was no way I would confess to my shabby treatment of my dad on his one visit to Pipit Cottage. “He wants to meet the letter writer,” Michael said. “Thinks a discussion will clear the air.”

I shook my head. “He believes he can sort out everyone's problems. He's always been that way—taking on lost causes, defending his friends against all odds.” I drummed my fingers on the table, my mind racing before it came to a sudden halt. “Why would he tell you all this?”

“I am his assistant—you haven't forgotten that, have you? And apart from that, I believe he's worried about you and Beryl.”

All because of a letter? “Have you seen it—this letter?”

“No, he told me about it last week,” Michael said, watching me carefully. “He said he would keep it—he didn't want anyone else coming across it. Are you sure he didn't leave it with you?”

Exasperated, I held my hands out, wide open. “Why would I be asking you all these questions if I'd seen it?”

Peg delivered our main dishes and I stared at my sole, my thoughts gradually making their way from crank letter to dead body.

“What does this have to do with Kersey?” I asked.

“Exactly,” Michael said. “So far, I can't see a connection.”

“Still, Kersey was near Marshy End.”

“What if Rupert had gone up to meet him? The fellow at the pub—”

“Val,” I interrupted.

“Val,” Michael continued, “said he'd been in on Saturday. Perhaps Rupert thought he'd go up early.”

“But you're saying that he knows about Kersey?”

Michael shook his head. “No, I'm saying whether or not he saw Kersey, he probably left not knowing Kersey was dead.”

“What if he saw what happened and the murderer is after him?” The words sent a chill through me and I shuddered. A stabbing pain in my hands caused me to look down, and I saw that I was clenching my knife and fork so tightly that my knuckles were white. I set down the utensils carefully. “Perhaps they've found him,” I whispered.

Michael took my hand and gave it a squeeze. “How could they find him—he's not driving his Rover, and that's what everyone expects from Rupert Lanchester.”

I appreciated his confidence and squeezed his hand back.

“And now he's gone away.” I held my wineglass to my chest as my lip trembled. “Would someone kill Kersey just to make Rupert look bad? It doesn't seem likely.”

Michael shook his head slightly as if to say yes—or no.

We finished our meal in silence. Peg appeared and cleared the table. “Pudding?” she asked. “Coffee?”

“No thanks, Peg. It was lovely, really.” And I suppose it was. For all our talk, I'd still managed to clean my plate.