Empty Nest (21 page)

Not an inch of Mrs. Froggett's enormous farm table could be seen, covered as it was with trays of cold meats, quiches, platters of roasted root vegetables, winter salads of rocket and beetroot and grains, bowls of pickles, wheels of local cheeses, and a mountain of rustic bread. Bottles of beer and cider took up space on a separate table along with apple tart for afters.

“My God, I'm starving,” I said to no one in particular. We piled our plates, and Dad, Michael, and I found a small table in the corner of the conservatory. I tucked in, but after a few bites paused to say, “Really, this is the first good meal I've had in days. I haven't been feeling too well”—a confession; I met Michael's eyes and smiled—“and I'd quite lost my appetite. I suppose part of it is that I needed to get away from the Hall and the village—even for a tiny holiday. It's only now I'm feeling better.”

Rupert spotted something on Michael's plate. “What's that?”

“Smoked trout.”

“I missed that,” Dad said, and got up. “Be back.” He'd got halfway to the food table before he stopped, pivoted, and came back.

“What have you been eating, Julia?”

I looked down at my plate, already half empty. “A bit of everything, I think.”

“No,” he said, and sat back down, his plate still in his hand. “What've you been eating at the Hall?”

“Well, it's like I said—not much. I wasn't interested. I couldn't finish my dinners and missed breakfast one day, I think. That's why I'm so hungry,” I said, unable to see why I had to defend my plate of food.

“What have
you
”—he pointed his fork at me, his face flushed—“been eating that no one else at the Hall has eaten?”

“Well, I…” My meals had been meager and forgettable. “I've been taking sandwiches in with me to the TIC, but I've not been able to eat half of any of them. And I barely touched the chocolate cake Nuala always leaves me in the kitchen—that's terrible, because it's such a kind thing for her to do.”

“When did this start?” he asked.

“Saturday?” Michael asked, and I nodded, blushing faintly.

“Those sandwiches,” Rupert continued, “who made them up for you? Who was it sliced the cake?”

Finally, I saw what he was after. “Dad! No one's poisoned my food. If you must know, I haven't been eating because Michael and I had an argument. I was upset, and it affected my appetite.”

“Rupert's right,” Michael said, his voice hard. “Someone could've tampered with your food—someone who thought you'd been asking too many questions about what happened to Freddy Peacock. This is my fault—if I'd been around, I might've noticed what was happening to you.”

“Stop it, the pair of you,” I said. I looked down at my plate, stabbed a fat round of pickled carrot, and popped it in my mouth. “You see,” I said with difficulty, “I'm fine now. Hungry as ever.”

Rupert tapped his fork on the side of his plate. I could almost hear his mind whirling. “You had a long journey yesterday—did you eat breakfast before you left?”

“Tea and toast—I made it myself.”

“And on the way?” Michael asked.

“Is this the third degree?” I looked from Dad to Michael, but neither looked as if they'd give in. “I stopped for tea and a biscuit. Just to break my journey.”

“Lunch?” Dad asked.

“Chips in a layby.” It occurred to me what my lunch should've been. “I have a chicken sandwich from the Hall, but I didn't eat it.”

I saw Dad tense. “Who made it for you?”

“
I
made it for me. When I finished my toast, I made my sandwich, wrapped it up, and then I…” A pricking sensation crept up my arms. I tried to rub it away. A dark thought that had been biding its time, dozing in the back corner of my mind, now rolled over, stretched, and came fully awake. Sheila's hands were all over my food—Sheila, who had listened to me speculate about who might have access to the poison and who might have a grudge against Freddy. Sheila, whose son had a shedful of chemicals and who had said to me himself that Cecil was like a brother to him. What we wouldn't do for family.

“No!” I stood up and stamped my foot. “I left it on the table in the kitchen only for a few minutes. Dad, you're reading too much into this.”

“I've been on the phone every day this week with DI Callow, Jools. Among other things, she wanted to know how much mevinphos would be lethal. I gave her that information. What I didn't say is that in small amounts over time it may not be lethal, but it can affect its victim in other ways. Disorientation. Depression. Loss of appetite.”

“Who has access to the kitchen?” Michael asked.

“Everyone,” I said. And in my mind's eye, I saw sandwiches wrapped and ready on the table in the morning, a wedge of cake on a plate at the end of the day. “Everyone wanders through. Mind you, not only people in the Hall. Anyone could've come in from outdoors. The gardeners, the maids from the village. And don't forget the Hall is open three afternoons a week, so absolutely anyone could walk into the kitchen.”

“You didn't eat the sandwich—not even a bite?” Dad asked. I shook my head. “What did you do with it?”

“It's still in the boot of my car.”

Rupert and Michael shot out of their chairs and made for the door. I followed, passing Mrs. Froggett, who had a surprised look on her face.

“Brilliant lunch,” I said. “We'll be back in for the apple tart.”

I forgot Dad still had a key to my Fiat. He and Michael stood at the open boot, staring down.

“It's still there, isn't it?” I asked.

They nodded.

“Michael, would you fetch me my gloves? And I've a roll of bin bags somewhere—bring one of them along, too.”

Michael went off to the Rover, and I joined Dad staring at the box. “Fingerprints?” I asked.

“Mevinphos can be absorbed through the skin—it's best to be well covered when using it, and immediately after to wash your clothes and shower.” He put his arm round my shoulders. We stared at the box as if it were a ticking bomb.

I held out my hands. “I went to the loo before I got my coffee. I washed my hands.”

“You'll be all right, Jools.” He gave me a squeeze. “If you've had low doses and they stopped two days ago, it should be out of your system. But it could still be here.” He nodded to the sandwich.

“Well, I won't believe it until you prove it. What will you do?”

“The police are using a toxicology lab in Malvern—I'll let them know I'm sending in a sample. I'll see what I can do to hurry the results—Callow is still waiting on hers.”

Michael returned with gloves and bag. Rupert took them and said, “You're not going back there, Julia. To Hoggin Hall.”

“Dad, don't be silly—I'm in no danger. I'm going back in the morning.”

“You're not going.”

“I
am
going.” I couldn't believe I was having this argument with him. I took a breath and let it out slowly, my eyes darting to Michael. “Of course, if you were finished with the crew here, Michael could go back with me. As protection.”

Rupert narrowed his eyes at me. “Michael?” he asked.

“Yes, sir, I'll keep an eye on her.”

Rupert sighed. “Tell the crew we'll wrap up with the Froggetts this afternoon, and we'll leave the lapwings until another time.”

Michael and I sat over our apple tart in the kitchen of the farmhouse; the others had gone back out to watch the Froggetts being photographed amid their flock. We caught up on our few days apart; I told him about the appearance of Isabel and relayed the story of my visit to Monks Barton and the Drakes. I gave as strict an account as I could of the murky goings-on with Addleton, a woman—I was convinced it had been his wife—and some other man.

“And thirty-odd years ago—Addleton would've been in his early twenties, I suppose—you'll never guess where he worked.” I waited an appropriate moment for the revelation. “Netherford House.”

Michael's eyes widened. “Villiers Country Hotel. But how does that tie him to what happened at Hoggin Hall? And what would that have to do with Freddy Peacock—he would have been quite young?”

“Yes,” I agreed. “Four or five years old?” At that moment, a collision occurred in my head—the crashing together of the names Netherford, Addleton, and Freddy. But not Freddy the man I had met at Hoggin Hall—Freddy the boy.

“Thorne knew Freddy Peacock,” I said, bewildered at my own pronouncement.

“Sorry?”

“He mentioned it ages ago, just after Cecil and Freddy arrived at the Hall. All those years ago, Thorne had a friend he visited at Netherford—I got the idea he was seeing a woman, but it was before Sheila came back to the estate.”

Michael cocked his head as if trying to sort out what that had to do with the matter at hand. Nothing, but it was part of the Thorne–Sheila Bugg narrative in my head.

I continued. “Freddy's father was…something at Netherford. Butler? Valet? Thorne told me when he visited his friend, he remembered seeing little Freddy. I don't think Freddy had any recollection of it.”

Michael reviewed what we knew. “Freddy Peacock and Addleton at Netherford at the same time, thirty years ago. But if Freddy's father worked in the house, and Addleton, an under gamekeeper out on the estate, it's unlikely their paths would cross. That and the age difference—”

“But it's something. And…we could check it out ourselves first without annoying Inspector Callow.” A thrill ran up my spine at the thought of taking action. “I don't suppose there's anyone left at the hotel that worked at Netherford all those years ago?”

Michael's eyes heated up into blue flames. “I know people at Villiers. Miles has taken over the account, of course, but the manager will remember me.” Miles, Michael's older brother, ran HMS, Ltd., the family PR firm. “A good few of the staff stayed on—but from that many years back, I don't know. Still, worth a try.”

We eyed each other, and I felt a charge in the air as I heard a clamor of bleating and Farmer Froggett call out from across the yard, “Don't worry, she won't get far.”

Mrs. Froggett appeared at the door and slipped out of her clogs. She crossed to the stove and picked up a kettle as big as a tire on my Fiat.

“Thought we'd need another round of tea,” she explained. Michael jumped up to fill the kettle for her and set it on the stove. “Ta, love. I'll just see if Samwise has caught up with old Mags yet.” Back into her clogs, and off she went.

We returned to our apple tart, and I let my sock foot wander up and down Michael's calf under the table.

“Do you like how I got you a couple days off—nice work, don't you think?”

“I've no time off—I'm on guard duty.” He caught my foot and kept hold. “And glad of it.”

“I still can't believe my food was poisoned—I truly was upset, and I'm sure that's what made me feel unwell. And I am happy to be away,” I said, wiggling the toes he held.

I pinched the last hunk of apple off Michael's plate as cast and crew of
A Bird in the Hand
returned from their visit with the sheep.

Michael and Rupert came to dinner at Turnstone House that evening, and the next morning, I collected Michael from the Boy Scout camp at eight o'clock. We had a long drive ahead. Villiers Country Hotel lay to the southeast of Smeaton-under-Lyme, about a half hour's drive from the village. The journey was a healing time—just the two of us traveling through the countryside. We talked about Freddy's murder, but we also talked about the tourist center and the Rupert Lanchester Foundation. We talked and we were silent, driving in and out of weather, from gray into sharp sunshine.

I rang Vesta along the way—all was well at the TIC. She reported that Cecil and Willow were spending a great deal of time together. Cecil had constructed a small marquee behind the TIC for the painting of the papier-mâché Hoggin Hall. “Are you all right?” she asked me—meaning Michael and me—and I told her yes, more than all right. I sent Linus a short text.

We stopped for coffee near Exeter, and when we were somewhere outside Reading, we pulled into a layby and ate cold chicken that Beryl had sent along. We returned to our suppositions about Geoffrey Addleton and Freddy Peacock, as puzzled as ever. What would Addleton have against a five-year-old boy that he would hunt him down thirty years later and poison him? And how would he know Freddy would come out to the Fotheringill estate with Cecil? I stuck by my idea that all this had something to do with Addleton and his ex-wife. Michael continued to point out that I didn't know if the woman involved was his ex-wife or not.

Birding is not a dual-carriageway sport, but, regardless, I watched out the window in case I spotted a flash of bright feathers in the hedge. As the afternoon wore on and the rain stopped, the sun, low in the sky, found a gap between clouds and horizon, and blazed forth, casting the world into either long shadows or golden light. Lit up away from us, I could see a bird soaring—a predator of some kind, although the distance was too great for me to tell. But it reminded me.

“Geoffrey Addleton likes sparrow hawks,” I said.

“Likes them?”

“Admires them—all predator birds, I think. Tony Drake told me.”

“So he's off the hook for the dead sparrow hawks.”

“I suppose.”

We reached the M4, and traffic slowed until at last we ground to a halt. “What's this about?” I fumed, and pulled out my phone to check the news. “Oh, collision ahead.”

We crept forward, a highway of snails, and when at last a sign for roadside services came into view, Michael asked, “Fancy a cup of tea?”

Michael stood with our tray while I searched for seats—we weren't the only ones wanting off the road for a break. The counters of Burger King, Jolly Diner, Pizza Hut, and Costa all had long queues, and tables throughout the place were crowded with families, while pensioners anchored the walls, securing any seating for two. At last, I waved to Michael from a far corner, and we sat sharing with a woman who read a book, her coffee cup containing nothing but a coating of foam. We had another two hours to reach Villiers, and that would make it gone six o'clock by the time we arrived. “We won't be able to talk with anyone today,” I said, offering Michael half my Jammie Dodger. “Perhaps we should just go back to Smeaton and continue in the morning?” The thought depressed me, and I made no attempt to disguise it.

“You don't have to stay at the Hall,” Michael said. A reminder of his offer, and one I could now consider with no panic. Well, a great deal less panic.

I covered his hand with mine and smiled. “I know. I remember.”

“I say we push on to Villiers,” he said. “It is, after all, a hotel.” I looked up at him, and I could see in my peripheral vision our tablemate leaning in slightly. I squirmed in my seat at the thought of a night in a posh country hotel with Michael. I could quite get used to this investigation thing.