Empty Nest (17 page)

I gasped, dropping my bag and torch and squinting at the tall figure in the doorway. I recognized the short swept-back haircut and the touch of frost to her voice.

“Good morning, Inspector Callow. It's my day off,” I said. Sticking my chin in the air, I picked up my bag and tiny torch and walked to the door. The inspector moved aside to let me out.

Adam stood near the cider house with his hands stuck in his pockets, DS Glossop at his elbow. I looked from one officer to the other.

“Good morning, Sergeant,” I said.

“Ms. Lanchester, good morning,” he said with a smile. “Lovely day—you know, the sunshine and all.”

“Glossop,” Callow said.

“Yes, boss,” the DS replied. Dropping the smile, he walked past us into the shed carrying a large torch.

Callow went over to Adam, but I stayed where I was. I sensed a question on Callow's lips—something along the lines of “What are you doing here looking in the chemicals shed?” and thought I'd deflect it.

“Adam,” I said, “we'll need to talk further about the wassail day in January.” Adam looked at me with a blank stare. True, he hadn't heard about it yet, but whereas the pub quiz came out of my mouth unawares, I already had this idea in mind. I'd read about it in a
Suffolk Life
article profiling a large orchard south of us, and I didn't think they'd care if we stole it. “What else is there to do in the dead of winter, after all?” I asked, upturned hands in the air. “It will be lovely to come out to the orchard for a bonfire and the ritual of thanking the trees, and with dancing and…whatnot.”

“Yeah, fine,” Adam said.

“Ms. Lanchester?” the inspector asked.

“Yes?”

“Are you finished here?”

“Oh, yes, right. That's me away.” But instead of leaving, I took a few steps, set my bag on the ground, and began to rummage round in it. “Now, what have I done with my phone?” I muttered loud enough for them to hear.

Callow turned to Adam. “May I look inside here?” she asked, nodding to the cider house. I watched as they walked round the far end to the door, and when they were out of sight, I backed into the shed.

DS Glossop stood scanning the shelves, the wide beam of his torch touching on each package and jug. When I entered, he turned the light on me and I threw my hand up in front of my eyes.

“Sorry,” he said, sending the beam off in another direction.

“I know what you're looking for, Sergeant,” I said. “Mevinphos.” A gust of wind made us both jump, but when no Callow appeared at the door, I leaned in to read a package. Glossop leaned, too.

“Don't touch anything, Ms. Lanchester. Fingerprints, you know. Although it doesn't look as if anything has been shifted from these shelves for years. You can tell. See here—the surface dirt not scraped away, none of the packages wiped clean. And the cobwebs—well, you couldn't reattach those now, could you?”

“Sergeant, I appreciate how you are willing to”—what, leak information? No, that wouldn't sound right—“share certain aspects of the investigation with me. It helps keep the lines of communication open. Don't you think?”

“My DI is an exceptional police officer, Ms. Lanchester—I'm lucky to work with her.” He shrugged. “It's only that, well, I see a case differently. I prefer to seek out the knowledge of the community so that we don't overlook any small detail that could assist the police in the apprehension of the person responsible for Mr. Peacock's death. It's important to be seen as a collaborator, not an inquisitor. Inspector Callow understands that.” Still, that understanding did not prevent DS Glossop's nervous glance out the slightly opened door and toward the cider house.

“It's an admirable professional relationship, Sergeant—and you and DI Callow seem to have worked it all out.”

“Yes, well.” Glossop blushed.

“Sergeant, if you do find something amiss here…well, you'll remember that on Cider Day there were loads of people out here in the orchard.”

“Yes—you, his Lordship, Mr. Fotheringill, Mr. Addleton, Adam Bugg and his mother, Louisa Larkin, Nuala Darke. And all of you had access to Hoggin Hall.” I saw a shadow of the officious scowl cross his face.

I didn't like hearing everyone listed in such a cold fashion. “Well, that hardly makes any one of us a murderer, does it?”

“Opportunity, Ms. Lanchester. You all had it.” I crossed my arms and frowned at him. “Ah now,” he said, “better this killer be caught and locked up in the nick than on the loose.”

I didn't reply. Natty glanced over my shoulder through the open door and continued. “Could've been put anywhere—his glass of whisky, that cup of tea from the mantel, as well as the sandwich Mr. Peacock never had the chance to finish. We're still waiting for the toxicology results.” He
tsk
ed and shook his head. “Slow coaches.”

“The woodcut print of the sparrow hawk, Sergeant?”

He shook his head. “Not worth more than a couple hundred quid, as it turns out.”

“The inscription—was it old?”

“Wasn't new.”

I took a breath, ready to speculate on the dead sparrow hawks, but I heard the large door of the cider house rolling shut—my cue to get out of DI Callow's sight. “Oh, must run.”

As far as the lane, at least—I had no desire to return to the Hall. I had a sandwich in my bag, the day was bright and fine, and I had another two hours before my appointment with Rosy at The Hair Strand. I'd walk into the village.

I surveyed my surroundings—fields, small copses with oak, ash, and beech. The ash had already dropped its leaves, but the beeches were only now beginning to turn to gold. I hadn't taken this route before, but knew it would be no trouble finding my way. I located the footpath sign that pointed diagonally across a field—that way to the road and the village. I struck out, hoping to shake off the lethargy that dogged me. As I made my way, I occasionally pulled out my binoculars to watch fieldfares perched on the bare branches of a rowan, gobbling its berries. As I walked, I thought.

If Cecil took drastic action and killed Freddy, would Linus try to cover it up? Would the police believe Linus had murdered to stop his son from being blackmailed? Which deed did Isabel accuse him of?

I wanted to pull these threads apart to examine them and follow the events of the days before Freddy's death, but I couldn't concentrate. I knew what I needed—I needed to talk this through with…yes, with Michael. But we weren't talking.

I stopped for a moment and looked round me trying to get my bearings. Shouldn't I have reached the road by now? Where was I? I struck out again, this time heading off through a second field at a different angle. I walked across a lane and found another sign, this one rusted through with the bottom half dangling so that it pointed in two directions at once. I thought back on all the times I'd told visitors in the TIC how easily they could traverse the estate on footpaths, and I wondered if I'd run across the remains of any of them out here.

The third time I passed the hawthorn with a trunk so twisted it looked like a tea towel that had been wrung out, I stopped, and sat down on the stile. I'd find my way eventually, but first I needed a rest. I texted Beryl for a baby update. No news.

I decided to lunch on the spot, but had taken only two bites of my ham sandwich when I heard a car approaching. I rewrapped the sandwich, stuck it in my bag, and waited. Along came a blue Honda with Mr. Addleton behind the wheel. He pulled up and lowered his window.

“Ms. Lanchester.”

More sparkling conversation.

“Good afternoon. I don't suppose you could give me a lift out to the road? I was heading into the village.”

“You weren't going that way, were you?” he asked, nodding in the direction I had been heading. “It would be a long walk.” I do believe he was making a joke. “Climb in.”

As he raced along the lane, I put my hand on the dashboard and thought to take advantage of my situation.

“Mr. Addleton, you've been getting to know all the tenants, haven't you? Stopping by to introduce yourself, getting tours of the farms, looking at what they plant, how they take care of things. You had a chat with Adam Bugg, didn't you?”

“I've been carrying out my duties as agent for his Lordship, yes.”

I'd need to be more direct. “Have you spoken with the police?”

We met a lorry round one bend, and Addleton pulled into a gap in the hedge to let it pass.

“Is this about Freddy Peacock?”

“Did you know Freddy?”

“I know his sort.”

Right, well, that didn't get me far. “Freddy died of the same poison those sparrow hawks did,” I said, and then added, “possibly. You've seen what chemicals are used and what's sitting on the shelves all over the estate—have you seen mevinphos? Have you ever used it?”

“You know what it is?” he asked, glancing my way before pulling out into the lane.

“Of course I do.”

“Does that make you a suspect?” he asked.

“I wasn't accusing you.”

“And are you privy to the progress of a police investigation?”

“No, of course not,” I said, wondering how I got on my back foot in this conversation. “It's only that someone may be blamed for this who had nothing to do with it.”

Addleton pulled out of a side lane and stopped at the bridge on the north end of the high street. I got out. Before I closed the door, he said, “I wouldn't let that happen, Ms. Lanchester—if it comes to that.”

Rosy massaged my temples with her thumbs and ran her long nails across my scalp as I lay back with my head in the sink at The Hair Strand. It's a pity she couldn't rub the muddle of thoughts out of my brain. Names had rearranged themselves, and now Geoffrey Addleton had taken top billing. I thought how he had appeared from nowhere, asking for the post before Linus had ever decided he needed an agent. Now that Cecil had come home to claim his responsibility as Fotheringill heir, did Addleton feel his position was in danger? Would he set Cecil up for a murder in order to keep himself safe?

“I don't know, Julia,” Rosy said as she led me over to her chair, my head wrapped in a towel. “You might want to try it—a bit of gold running through your hair would brighten it so. You're just at that age where it would be lovely.” Rosy had made the mistake early on of trying to pinpoint my age—she'd been off by a couple of years, and not on the good side. These days she stepped carefully. I tried not to mind being labeled “near forty” as long as we remembered that milestone wouldn't be reached for another couple of years.

“I don't think so, Rosy—no highlights yet. But perhaps we could revisit it next cut?”

“Right you are. Now,” she said, whipping out a comb and scissors, “same as usual?”

Well, then—there I was in the village, hair cut and styled in an easy bob with my fringe still hanging just a bit in my eyes. TIC closed, no desire to go back to the Hall. What now? I buttoned my coat and pulled my bag up on my shoulder and let my feet carry me down the high street to my Pipit Cottage.

My spirits lifted at the sight of the plastic cover torn away from the door and two workers in the kitchen. I put my head in.

“Hello,” I called. “This is my cottage—hard at work?”

The two practically jumped to attention at my declaration.

“Yes, miss, you see, the difficulty was with the oak beams.” He nodded up to the ceiling, which had been stripped of centuries of plaster just as the walls had. “His Lordship was quite particular with how we were to carry out repairs, and we were to find oak beams of the right age, in keeping with this terrace.”

The other one chimed in. “And we said we could do, but it might take time, but this morning his Lordship rang and said to get on it now and the devil take the cost. We've had to stop our other jobs.”

A miasma of emotions overcame me—a pang of guilt at my selfishness mixed with a wave of gratitude at Linus's response and a flame of hope that I'd be back in my own home before long. I'd cook a lovely meal to celebrate—a warm, inviting autumn menu. I could almost smell the roasting potatoes and the woodsy scent of thyme. Michael would know just the right wine to bring.

The momentary lightness in my heart faded as I realized my mistake—Michael wouldn't come to dinner. And why should he after I did such a fine job of pushing him away?

“Right, well, carry on. And thanks.” I stood on the pavement and looked up and down the high street before heading for the green. It seemed to take me forever, as if I were a windup toy going slower and slower. My mainspring came completely uncoiled just as I reached my usual bench. I didn't sit, didn't move. I had turned to stone, and I would stand there forever while the rest of the world carried on round me. The sky dimmed as I contemplated my bleak future.

No, the sky actually dimmed—an enormous black cloud had appeared so suddenly that I thought my dark mood had created it. Then I realized what I saw.

Starlings—thousands of them. A murmuration. Not the rarest of sights, but always breathtaking. The birds moved as a single entity, like a giant shape-shifter, a cloud that swelled and shrank as they flew—wheeling, soaring, rising, and falling like dark liquid. My mum had always said that a murmuration reminded her of a lava lamp she had as a child—amorphous blobs in a tank of liquid that floated, separated, came together, and divided again.

I stood mesmerized by the event, and as I watched, I noticed a lone bird off to the side—larger than a starling. It made straight for the massive murmuration, and my heart leapt in my throat. A sparrow hawk, taking advantage of the situation. It flew at the birds, piercing the cloud in an instant. I gasped and covered my mouth, but the starlings seemed to take little notice—they closed ranks, moving off to continue their show further on. The sparrow hawk slowly soared away—I couldn't look at it, afraid to know if it had been successful.

My chest heaved, and I couldn't catch my breath, as if I'd been a part of the hunt myself. The sky grew quiet, and a heavy gloom wrapped round me as I pondered the disaster that was my life. What've I done to myself?

I left the green, an urgency sending me past the tea room and my cottage, dodging sandwich boards that sat on the pavement outside shops and with not a glance at the TIC. Two streets past Akash's corner shop and up a lane of well-tended detached cottages. I stopped at one, turned up the walk, and rang the bell. A moment later, the door opened to comfort, warmth, and light, causing tears to burst forth and course down my cheeks.

“Oh, Vesta,” I said, drawing a ragged breath. “I've made such a mess of things—what am I to do?”