Empty Nest (19 page)

I went straight to the kitchen when I arrived at the Hall, hoping to share my good news with Sheila Bugg. No Sheila, but I did find a wedge of chocolate cake Nuala had left me. Although my spirits had risen, my appetite had not completely followed suit, but I couldn't leave it on the table—how ungrateful would that look? I made a cup of tea and took the cake and my mug to my room.

Upstairs, I changed and packed; it took me no time. I rang Vesta with Bianca's news and to arrange my days away.

“This is wonderful—just what you need,” Vesta said.

Before I went down for drinks, I noticed that the cake sat where I'd left it on the windowsill in my alcove. I'd eat it later, before bed.

“Good evening,” I said to the group in the library. Isabel sat by the fire looking at a magazine—she glanced up at me under those heavy lids of hers. Addleton, Cecil, and Linus hovered over a map unrolled on a large table. I took my glass of sherry from the drinks table, continued straight to Linus, and told him about my new niece.

Addleton offered stiff congratulations and Linus said, “A girl. What did they name her?”

“Well, I didn't actually…”

“Cecil was a beautiful baby,” Isabel said, becoming all misty eyed. “Do you remember that, Linus? He was an angel.”

Linus smiled at Cecil. “I remember you had quite a set of lungs on you. Now, Julia, of course you must go to your sister. I'll talk with Vesta about increasing her hours, shall I?”

“Sorted,” I said. “She's on the schedule, and Willow offered to help, too. She'll be in every afternoon the rest of the week.” I cut my eyes at Cecil and imagined I saw his interest level rise a few degrees. “Cecil,” I said, “I don't suppose you'd have time to help at the TIC? I know Vesta and Willow would appreciate it.”

Isabel raised her head. “I doubt if Cecil has the time to work behind the counter, Julia—he has the estate to run.”

“I'm not running the estate, Mother,” Cecil replied with the tiniest note of testiness to his voice. “And I'd very much like to help out Ms. Widdersham—and, of course, Willow—in their daily activities.”

I could almost see Isabel's antennae working. “Who is this Willow?”

“She's the niece of the woman who runs the wool shop,” Linus said. “I think it's a fine idea for you, Cecil, and I'm grateful you've offered.”

“What's this girl got to do with the tourists?”

“She's our intern,” I explained to Isabel. “And we couldn't have anyone better. She's creative and personable—and she's not a girl, she's a woman. Cecil has seen how well she works with the vendors for the Christmas Market, haven't you?”

“She had everything well in hand,” Cecil confirmed. I'd allow him this—giving Willow all the credit for the market—because it seemed to irritate Isabel so.

“Won't you take the train?” Linus asked me over cocoa late that evening. “We could run you into Cambridge—quicker from there, I imagine. You'll be on the road all day.”

“No, I'll be fine driving—it'll be quite fun, really.” What I didn't tell him was that up in my room, I'd checked the route on my phone and found that with only a tiny detour I could stop by Monks Barton in Dorset—Geoffrey Addleton's former place of employment. Linus might not think it odd that the man had taken a post that hadn't actually existed when he applied for it, but I thought it suspicious. And that had encouraged me to embellish Hutch's vague impression of Addleton and Freddy Peacock being at the Royal Oak on the same evening. When I did the sums, I decided there was more to be discovered about Addleton.

Of course Monks Barton had a website—who didn't, these days? It included a brief history of the current owners, Nan and Tony Drake, who had bought the place a few decades ago. No title, only—apparently—buckets of money. The structure was a fine example of Edwardian architecture attached to a Georgian wing and with an abandoned abbot's well from the twelfth century.

There was nothing about inviting the public to visit—but the place was ripe for it, I could tell. They might quite appreciate advice from the manager of the TIC in Smeaton-under-Lyme. I would ring them on my way, and imply that their former estate agent suggested I stop. I would share my expertise with them and they would share with me Addleton's history: the barter system, even if they wouldn't know it. Whatever useful piece of information I learned I would, of course, turn over directly to DI Callow—by way of her sergeant.

The next morning, the kitchen was like Paddington Station. I walked into the middle of a conversation between Linus and Nuala. Behind her on the counter was a fresh Battenberg cake—his Lordship's favorite.

“…it's no trouble, I'm delighted,” Nuala said.

“Well, I'll certainly look forward to my tea today,” Linus said.

“Good morning,” I said to them as Addleton passed through the kitchen from the courtyard and made for the corridor. I shifted to let him by, and Isabel bumped me with the swinging door on her way in.

She looked round the kitchen, taking in the crowd. “No wonder there's no breakfast in the dining room.”

Sheila emerged from the pantry. “Everyone else was down early, Lady Fotheringill. Let me prepare a tray for you.”

“Certainly not, Mrs. Bugg,” Isabel said. “Although I wouldn't mind a cup of tea in the morning room.”

Thorne pushed open the door halfway and took in the scene. “Has Adam arrived?” he asked.

Sheila nodded. “He's in the yard waiting for you.” She walked outside with the butler to join her son as I switched on the kettle. I looked out the window at the three—no, four, as Cecil walked over to join them—in a confab, their breath coming out in the cold air like fog. Checking each other's story? Comparing alibis? I couldn't keep my mind from touching on those possibilities. I shook my head. There had to be something else there. I watched for another moment as Cecil pulled a pair of work gloves from his coat pocket and set to unloading wood from the back of Adam's small beat-up van.

“Well, Julia,” Isabel said, backing out of the kitchen. “Safe journey.”

She slipped out the door, and Linus excused himself to join the group in the yard.

“Would you like a cup of tea, Nuala?” I asked.

“No, no, Julia, thanks all the same, I won't.” But Nuala didn't move and looked on the verge of continuing.

“Everything all right?”

The red on her cheeks spread and deepened. She held her hands in front of her, worrying them. “It's just that, well, you know how very happy I am to be running the café out here the three open afternoons.”

I swished my tea bag round in my cup and waited, but nothing else emerged. “I hope it's worth the extra work for you,” I said.

“Yes, well, you see—that's it, isn't it?” Nuala rushed on. “You know I'm happy to offer bits to any of you in the Hall, but I do like to keep everything organized—I count out scones, and I know how many slices of cake can be held over for the next day. It can make it difficult if that count…changes.”

It took a moment for her words to sink in—someone had been pilfering from the café. “Oh, Nuala, I'm so sorry. You're right, it wouldn't be good for business if you offered someone a slice of lemon drizzle and came up short.”

Nuala reached out and gripped my arm. “Thank you, Julia. I knew you'd understand—of course, I'm delighted that you have such a fondness for my baking. It's only that, well, we do want the visitors to enjoy it, too, don't we?”

“Me? I'd never take something from the café, only what you leave for me. It must be someone else.” Nuala and I both scanned the empty kitchen, as if trying to catch the culprit red-handed. “It's probably…” I'd think of someone to blame later. “Look, I'll have a word with Linus, don't you give it another thought.”

“Thank you, Julia,” Nuala said, exhaling in a rush. “I'm sorry I thought it was you, and really, I'm always delighted to leave you the occasional treat. Well, I'd best be on my way. I've both fruit and cheese scones on my baking list today.”

I had insisted on making my own sandwich—Sheila had quite enough to do—and I'd left it wrapped on the table and returned to my room, checking my bag once more before zipping it up. One good pair of trousers and a nice sweater and a backup set. Quite enough for a short visit to Cornwall.

I stopped in the kitchen, now empty, and found my sandwich secured in a small plastic box. As I pulled my bag up on my shoulder, tucked the box under my arm, and picked up my case, Sheila came in.

“Prepare to be inundated with snapshots of baby,” I told her.

“I'll look forward to it. Have you visited after each one arrived?”

“Yes, all of them.” I was actually in the room with Paul when Emmy, the oldest, was born—although I didn't remember much, as the nurse had to sit me down with sugary tea when I became light-headed.

As I was loading the boot of my little Fiat, Linus came out and we stood in the cold, clear air.

“Good day for a drive,” he said. “You're all sorted there?”

I nodded. “It's quite generous of you, allowing me so much time off. You'll ring, won't you—if you hear of any…developments?”

He lifted his chin in acknowledgment. “I spoke with Inspector Callow yesterday, asking why they weren't looking elsewhere for someone who would want Freddy Peacock…out of the way. What about his business associates? Clients? His personal life?”

“What did she say?”

“She told me I was a nosy parker and to stay out of police business.” He said it with a straight face but a twinkle in his eye. I laughed, but his brief humor faded, replaced by the furrowed brow that had become his almost constant expression of late. “They've asked Cecil into the station again today. I tell you, Julia, if the police keep this up, I will see to it they have reason to look elsewhere for a suspect.”

I had a vision of Linus marching into the station and confessing to Freddy's murder himself, just to draw the attention of the police away from his son. Would he go to such an extreme? I touched his arm. “Please let the police work it out—they'll find Freddy's killer. Promise me you won't do anything rash.” Said the queen of rash decisions.

He gave a single nod. “Well,” I said, “that's me away.” I reached for the car door as I caught a glimpse of Isabel watching us out the kitchen window. I leaned over and gave Linus a kiss on the cheek.
Bad Julia.
“Thanks.”

He smiled and blushed. I drove to the end of the drive and paused for a moment, as if I was attached to the Hall and its turmoil by a taut rubber band that tugged me back. But in my mind flashed a picture of Bianca, baby, family—and Michael. The rubber band snapped and I hurtled forward on my journey.

The beginning of a road trip is always a delight—away, seeing the sights, enjoying the countryside. But that euphoric feeling doesn't last, and two hours later, I pulled off the M4 at a roadside service, tired of sitting. I gave a brief thought to eating my sandwich, but instead I bought tea and an enormous Jammie Dodger from Costa Coffee. Halfway through the shortbread-and-jam biscuit, I realized with a start that I was eating and enjoying it. I took this as a sign—I had pulled myself out of a funk with the thought of seeing family and facing up to Michael.

I motored on. After another two hours and about a hundred roundabouts, the idea of lunch crept into my thoughts. I found a layby with a food caravan where the fragrance of grease and vinegar drew me forward, and I succumbed to a paper cone of hot chips. Before I got back on the road I rang Monks Barton. I prepared to tell the story that would get me in the door—I wouldn't lie, but I might need to dance round the edge of facts.

Nan Drake had a thin, elderly voice, but sounded lively and welcomed me with open arms when she heard I worked with their former estate agent and happened to be in the area.

“Oh, dear Geoffrey, we miss him so. You must stop by for tea—do say you have the time.”

Taken aback at the ease of my entry, I stumbled over a few words of acceptance.

“That's lovely,” she replied. “Now, do you have satnav or shall I give you directions?”

It took me another hour. Once out of Yeovil, the estate was well signed as if it were a National Trust site. I turned down the drive and passed signs indicating the way to the summer house, the stables, kitchen garden, yew maze, home farm, and arboretum. It looked as if Geoffrey Addleton had given up a great deal to come to work in Suffolk.

A young woman with white-blond hair tucked up under her maid's cap met me at the door, smoothing out her apron and giving me a smile. “Good afternoon.”

The lady of the house appeared just behind.

“It's all right, Gracie, I'm here. You can bring the tea in any time.”

Nan Drake put her arm through mine as if we'd been friends forever. She looked to be in her seventies with soft steel-colored hair pulled back into a bun—what hadn't escaped to curl down her neck. Her arm felt like a stick; although we were the same height, she couldn't weigh more than my ten-year-old niece.

“We're so happy to meet you. Come through now to the small sitting room; Tony is waiting for us.”

I'd've loved to get a closer look at the house—it seemed all gilded frames, pale walls, white crown molding, and marble statues. We turned into the “small” sitting room, twice the size of the library at Hoggin Hall. A bear of a man, dark and hairy, stood up, and said, “Welcome to Monks Barton, Tony Drake, good to meet you.” Turned out he was the cuddly type of bear—his handshake was warm and firm, but not bone-shattering.

We settled on gold brocade sofas with gilded wood frames at right angles to the fireplace and a plethora of what looked like family photos on the bookshelf. In only a moment Gracie entered carrying an enormous tray with tea and a Victoria sponge.

Nan gave me a brief history of the house and as she gestured to furniture and paintings, her thin arms floated about as if attached to invisible strings and controlled by a puppeteer from above.

“Have you ever thought of opening to the public?” I asked.

The Drakes exchanged smiles. “Our boys have said the same thing. They've at last convinced us we should,” Nan said. “Haven't they, Tony?”

“Been after us for years,” Tony replied. “We're letting them sort it all out.”

“Hoggin Hall is open three afternoons a week,” I said. “We started in late spring—it's working quite well. We'd be most happy to share our experiences with you.”

“I'm sure the boys would welcome it, wouldn't they, Tony?”

“Lads would be grateful.”

“Now, tell us, how is Geoffrey getting on,” Nan said.

“Quite well. You aren't in touch with him?”

She shook her head. “Just a note—didn't he send you a note, Tony, to say he'd settled in well?”

“He sent us a note to say he'd settled in, not to worry.”

“How could we not worry?” Nan asked, shaking her head. “After all those years he was with us. Such a dear man. He was like a member of the family—we said that to him, didn't we, Tony?”

“Told him he was like a member of the family,” Tony replied. “Lads used to follow him out to the stables every day of their holidays. He put them to work all over the estate. Good man, Addleton.”

Were we talking about the same person?

“Here now,” Nan said, standing and selecting one of the framed snapshots. “Here he is with the boys.”

The photo was certainly Addleton, a few years younger, with three boys standing near a tractor.

“Of course, he did rather keep himself to himself,” Nan said.

“Not the most talkative sort,” Tony added.

Ah, yes, identity confirmed.

“But he carried out his work with never a problem.”

“Until last year,” Tony said.

“Tony.” Nan's voice held a note of warning. My ears perked up.

“Well,” Tony said, “she upset the apple cart, Nan—you could see it in him. And I think the man should know.”

“It doesn't matter now,” Nan replied. “They're divorced.”

“Divorce or not, you don't want something like that happening right under your nose.”

“It isn't our place,” Nan said, taking up her tea.

“Started that weekend all those people were here.”

Nan's face lit up. “That was a lovely house party, wasn't it? And no one minded at all that there was no shooting.”

Tony reached for another slice of cake, and that seemed to conclude the story.

Their conversation sounded like a stroll down a well-worn path—no need for identifying factors such as proper names or dates, and no chance of changing the other's mind. Washed of detail, polished smooth.

But I needed details, and so I made up my own. Geoffrey Addleton was married when he lived and worked at Monks Barton, and his wife had had an affair at a weekend house party. They'd gone through a tumultuous divorce, and Addleton had wanted to get as far away from her as possible. But distance had not helped him recover from it—he still ached for her, and that's why he was such a grumpy gus all the time.

It was a cracking good story, and one I would love to hear more of, but it didn't seem to help my investigation one whit.

“Do you remember Geoffrey speaking of someone called Freddy Peacock—someone he knew from London, perhaps?”

“Geoffrey and London?” Nan laughed, making me feel as if I'd asked about Geoffrey going to Mars. “We could barely get him into Yeovil—Geoffrey loves the country, doesn't he, Tony?”

“Wouldn't set foot in a city or town if he wasn't made to,” Tony replied.

I persisted. “It's odd, isn't it, that Mr. Addleton took a post so far away from Dorset.”

“Yes,” Nan said, “I suppose it would appear odd, wouldn't it, Tony?”

“Damn odd,” Tony replied.

We were silent for a moment. I finished up my cake as Nan looked thoughtful. “Of course,” she said, “Geoffrey did say to us that there's no shooting on the Fotheringill estate. Didn't he say that, Tony?”

“No shooting—we've no shooting here, either, as you heard.” Tony nodded to his wife. “Nan's a vegetarian, couldn't do that to her.”

“All that death on display,” Nan said and shuddered. “And what goes along with it—the need to kill the foxes and the badgers and the predator birds.” She drew an arc in the air as if following a bird's flight.

Tony set down his plate. “Why not leave them be, Addleton would say. He would point them out to me, you know—a harrier or a peregrine or a—”

“Sparrow hawk,” I cut in.

“Yes, sparrow hawk,” Tony said, nodding. “ ‘Look how silent they are on the hunt,' he once told me. ‘If you were a pigeon, you'd never know what hit you.' ”

“Enough of that, now,” Nan said. “You know, Ms. Lanchester, Geoffrey did say he wanted to move closer to where he came from. That's another reason he took the new post.”

Tony grunted agreement. “He applied for our position here all those years ago while he was working up in Cheshire. But he wasn't from Cheshire, either—he began work in Essex.”

Yes, I'd heard that from Linus. Had Suffolk been as close as he could get? “Do you know where in Essex?”

Nan and Tony looked at each other as if searching for the answer in the other's face. They made thinking sounds and muttered. At last, Nan said, “Near Great Horkesley—do you remember that, Tony?”

“Mmm,” Tony said. “Near there. He was under gamekeeper or something of the sort. Now, what was the name of that place? Bush Green? Hodges Barn?”

Nan raised her hand, her arm floating about in the air. “Netherford House.”