Empty Nest (23 page)

Michael stretched as I stirred milk into our tea. Cup and saucer in each hand, I sat on the edge of the bed beside him. He opened one eye and put his hand up under the thick terry robe and on my thigh. “What time is it?” he asked, and looked at his watch on the nightstand for the answer.

“Breakfast is served until half nine,” I said. “It's a lovely day—everything dusted with frost. And you can see the entire countryside from this room—almost all the way to Colchester. I've already had a bath, and you're to talk with Char this morning about Mrs. Penny. We can strategize over breakfast—sort out what we want to ask her, how much to give away.” He pushed himself up and took his tea. “Breakfast is served until half nine—did I say that already?”

I hovered over the tables of meats, cheeses, yogurts, fruit, and pastry before filling a small plate for the both of us—Michael had gone to find Char—then began searching for our room number on the small tables lined two rows deep. Only when I sat down did I realize I was next to Inspector Callow's friend.

Chloe, as elegant in country clothes as in a dinner dress, smiled in recognition, and we murmured “good morning”s. The server asked tea or coffee and went on her way.

“Lovely place,” Chloe said.

“Fantastic. Have you been here before?”

“No,” she said. “I saw an advert in a magazine. It's so good to get out of London. Tess and I haven't seen each other in a month.”

I rolled my eyes. “I know what that's like.”

“Tess said she knows you because of an active case,” Chloe said, and shrugged. “She has a difficult time letting go of work, but I made her promise we wouldn't talk about it this weekend.” She glanced toward the dining-room entrance. “So, you won't bring it up, will you? Work?”

“Not a word,” I said, relieved at having this issue sorted for me. I'd been asked—no, begged—to keep off the subject of Freddy Peacock's murder.

DI Callow walked up with a plate full of fruit and a bowl of yogurt, and put on a brave face when she saw me. I have to say I felt the tiniest bit sorry for her. Here she was looking for some time off, and whom does she meet? Did she think I would begin rabbiting on about poisons and sparrow hawks?

“Good morning,” I said as she sat. “Isn't this a lovely breakfast? Just the way to start a weekend of country walks. I do wish we could stay longer, but I must get back to my own work.” I turned to Chloe. “I'm the manager of the tourist office in Smeaton-under-Lyme. But”—I held my hand up in front of my mouth—“no talk of work.”

A server delivered pots of tea. Michael appeared behind her, and hesitated when he saw who occupied the next table, but I don't think the two women noticed. “Good morning,” he said. I pushed the plate of food over to him.

We ordered breakfast from the server, and as we waited, Callow and Chloe looked over a map of the area, picking out their walk, while Michael and I talked about Dad's foundation. At least I think that's what we talked about—we only wanted to fill the air with words that wouldn't attract the DI's attention.

I saw Char heading toward us a step ahead of the server with our hot food.

“Michael, I've cleared the way for you,” Char said as she walked. “She's an odd duck, grown a bit odder as the years have gone by, but she always enjoys a visit. Mind you, she may not remember—”

“Char!” I said, far too loudly, but I had been afraid the next words out of her mouth might've been Freddy's name. “Please tell Brit I loved wearing her dress. It made quite an impression. You loved it, didn't you?” I asked DI Callow, and then turned back to Char. “Insp—” I stopped myself just in time. Not inspector—we were all friends here. “
Tess
…loved it.”

Mrs. Penny, long-retired housekeeper from Netherford House, had been seen to quite well by the family. Her detached cottage sat at the edge of a hamlet on the estate—the hotel park now—that consisted of a handful of other cottages and a shop. Michael opened the gate, and we walked up the stone path past shrub roses showing only thorns at this time of year.

No bell, so I raised the knocker and tapped lightly. We waited, but when no one came, I raised the knocker again, letting it drop in a loud
clank.

The door flew open, and we jumped.

“You don't need to make that much noise. I haven't lost my hearing, you know.”

She stood my height, a substantial woman, wearing a plaid skirt in greens and blues, a pale yellow blouse, and a black cardigan. She had a full, throaty voice and her round face was framed in gray hair—it hung straight to her chin with a severe fringe over her eyes that made it look as if she peered at us from between a gap in the drapes. She wielded a thick wood cane with a shepherd's crook handle.

“Hmmph,” she said, unsmiling. “Thought you were the boy from the shop.” We jumped apart as her cane flew up when she gestured across the road.

“Good morning,” Michael said. “I believe Char Arkell at the hotel rang you earlier about our visit?”

“Yes, of course she did,” Mrs. Penny said. “You must be Mark.”

“Michael,” he said.

“Yes, that's right.” She turned to me. “And you're Jocelyn.”

“Julia.”

“Yes, that's right. Have you parked along the lane?” The cane swept left and right, and we leapt out of its path.

“Just there,” Michael pointed to my sky-blue Fiat. “Is that all right?”

“Most satisfactory. Do please come through.” The cane showed us the way, and we obeyed, marching in single file. We stopped and hovered near a low arched doorway into the sitting room, waiting for orders. “So lovely to have visitors who are interested in Netherford. I gave my life to the house and the family until I could work no longer. We were all so grateful Mrs. Arkell could step in and do such an admirable job until the last days. And now, of course, that it's a commercial venture.”

“It's kind of you to see us,” I said as I looked round, not knowing where to step next. Stacks of cartons rose up on either side of the hall, each with a clear, if shaky, handwritten label, such as “first-floor landing,” “nook in morning room,” “attic, northeast corner.” Inside the sitting room, more cartons lined the walls, broken up by sets of shelves upon which crowded a mélange of china figurines four deep—shepherds with lambs, ladies carrying baskets, begging dogs and their blind masters. Occasional tables were scattered about like rocks in a stream.

Heavy drapes had been pulled shut, but no worries about the lack of light, as floor lamps old enough to sport cloth flexes anchored each corner. On tables, smaller lamps provided shelter for a forest of porcelain badgers, squirrels, and foxes only an inch high, and illuminated what looked to be an extensive collection of the
Book of Common Prayer.

“There now, Mark,” Mrs. Penny said, cane indicating an overstuffed chair. “Make yourself comfortable while Jocelyn and I see to the tea.”

“Thank you,” Michael said, winking at me after her back was turned.

I followed Mrs. Penny to the kitchen as she swung the cane alongside her, never using it for support. On either side of me, oversized oil paintings in heavy gilded frames loomed far too close to get any idea of what they showed. I knocked into a wooden ship's figurehead of a woman that protruded from a corner. I could see not a speck of dust in the place, but my nose caught a strong musty odor as we passed another room, floor-to-ceiling with bookshelves, and more cartons. There's no disguising the smell of old paper.

The kettle must've just boiled, as it needed little encouragement to whistle.

“Here now, why don't you suss out a few biscuits for us,” Mrs. Penny said, nodding to an ancient Crawford's tin that contained Garibaldis. “Set them on one of those plates.” Several stacks of dishes painted with scenes of English country life or plants and flowers occupied the counter surface. I reached for the nearest. “Not that one, Jocelyn.” I moved my hand over each stack like a Geiger counter waiting for the feedback beep. When I reached a plate rimmed with a strawberry pattern, I heard it. “Yes, that's right.”

“It's lovely,” I said.

“Always used it when the girls had friends over for tea,” she replied, although I wasn't sure if she referred to her own girls or girls at Netherford.

Michael sat submissively in his chair when we returned, causing me to suspect he'd been snooping. Mrs. Penny followed me in carrying the tea, her cane swinging on her arm. I had offered and had been given a sharp reproof. “I'm perfectly capable of carrying in a tray, Jocelyn—been doing it my entire life.”

“What fine collections you have here, Mrs. Penny,” Michael said. He's much better at buttering people up, and so I let him have at it and made it my job to pour milk in his tea and put a biscuit on his plate. I don't think he cared for Garibaldis, but this was no time to be picky.

“Rescues, most of it,” Mrs. Penny replied. “Not that I blame the hotel people, but really, if I hadn't saved all this”—she took hold of the crook of her cane, and Michael and I leaned away as she used it to indicate the contents of her cottage—“it would've gone to the tip along with all the other rubbish. Not even the family cared that much, although I'm sure they took what they deemed most important.”

“It's too bad when old things aren't appreciated,” Michael said. “Of course, some people understand. I'm sure Freddy Peacock would've admired what you've saved.”

It was as if the sun had broken through the heavy floral drapes, as Mrs. Penny's face lit up. “Freddy! Do you know him? Dear little thing—hadn't seen him since he was this tall”—the cane wiggled a few feet off the ground—“and here he came only a…let's see, when was that? A week ago?”

“Possibly a fortnight?” I asked. Freddy had not been alive the week before.

“Yes, that's right. Freddy,” she repeated, dunking her Garibaldi into her tea. “I can still see him as a boy. He never wanted to go outdoors with the others, only cared for poking about in rooms. Always underfoot in the house, but in a good way. We could set him to counting the silver or polishing candlesticks. He was forever learning about the furniture and paintings. It's no wonder that's how he makes his way now. Antiques.” She shook her head with amazement.

I tried to view Mrs. Penny's accumulation of things as Freddy had.

“He must've enjoyed seeing things he remembered from growing up,” I said.

“He spent ages examining each little piece,” Mrs. Penny said. “ ‘Pen,' he said to me—that's what he called me when he was a boy—‘you've kept quite a bit of the old house, haven't you?' ”

My eyes darted round the room, so packed as to be suffocating, and I wondered if Freddy had pocketed something on his way out the door. If he had purloined a pricy memento or two, would that be enough to get him murdered? But by whom? Mrs. Penny hadn't taken her cane to him.

“Anything in particular catch his fancy?” Michael asked.

“Not until he came across an old money box in the other room. No money in it, but he was quite intrigued.” Mrs. Penny put her head to the side and continued thoughtfully. “It had been set inside a larger carton that was put along the east wall of one of the third-floor rooms”—her memory of things long past was sharp—“and as no one else wanted it, I brought it here.”

“And he took the box with him?” I asked.

“No, it was what was inside that was of great interest to Freddy. A large envelope, sent through the post years ago. It had been delivered but never opened. It was addressed to a fellow who worked out on the estate, and I believe he had left Netherford—well, you know those young people, always on the move.”

“Who was this young fellow?”

“What was in the envelope?”

Our questions piled on top of each other. Mrs. Penny stood up. I thought we'd annoyed her and she might stalk out of the room, but she said, “Well, let me go and look.”

My eyes met Michael's. We put our teacups down and followed Mrs. Penny into the room full of books and cartons. The drapes were drawn here, too. She'd switched on the overhead light, a dim bulb of ancient vintage that cast a weak yellow glow over a small area.

A box perched atop a fern stand—a heavy box made from thick wood planks, plain, worn, and held together with dull metal hinges. The sort of box you'd never give a second glance. Mrs. Penny worked at the rusted hasp to open it.

“He didn't take the envelope with him?” Michael asked.

“He took the contents but left the envelope,” she said, shaking the recalcitrant lock, which at last gave way. “ ‘Oh, Pen,' he said, ‘I've found such a treasure.' Didn't look like it to me. I let him take what he wanted—some letters, I believe. A photo or two. A black-and-white print of a bird.”

She reached inside and pulled out a large brown envelope, which had been torn open. Mrs. Penny turned it upside down and shook it. A single feather dropped out and floated softly to the floor.

I bent down to pick it up, a pricking sensation racing up my arm. A tail feather—light colored with dark bands across it. A sparrow hawk's feather.

Michael took the envelope from Mrs. Penny and flipped it over. No return address, but the name of its intended recipient was printed in large letters:

Geoffrey Addleton

Netherford House

Great Horkesley

Essex

Mrs. Penny stood on her doorstep, watching us leave, a smile on her face and her cane waving farewell. We had not told her about Freddy's sad fate—Char Arkell had volunteered for that task and would be out later in the day. When we were out of her sight, I pulled over. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Michael held the feather by its shaft, twirling it between his thumb and forefinger. Behind us on the seat lay the envelope, although fat lot of good it would do us. Freddy had torn off the stamps and the entire postmark, and so date and place were missing.

“How did a large envelope get left behind? Wouldn't it be redirected by Royal Mail?” I asked.

Michael shook his head. “We moved house when I was fifteen, and although my dad had filled in all the proper forms, still half of our post got sent to the old place. Including my issues of
Radio Times,
” he said with disgust.

“Addleton,” I whispered, and looked over my shoulder as if Mrs. Penny still listened. “Addleton murdered Freddy. How long had Freddy been blackmailing him—and was it only by chance they both arrived at Hoggin Hall?”

“Freddy found something, but can we say he was blackmailing Addleton over it?” Michael asked, representing the voice of reason. “The people in Dorset—the Drakes—they didn't know Peacock?”

I shook my head. “Never heard of him. I'd so hoped they could tell me the link—what drew Addleton away from Monks Barton and to the Fotheringill estate.”

“Whatever he found—papers, photos from that envelope—it was from a long time ago. Did Addleton kill for it?” Michael asked. I was happy to see him slide into a speculative way of thinking. “And did he get back what he wanted?”

“He didn't get the print of the sparrow hawk. That got left behind. Freddy must've had it hidden. Addleton had to hurry and lock Freddy in, and so he didn't look thoroughly,” I said. The smoke had billowed up and threatened to overtake him, too, perhaps.

“Who sent Addleton the print?” Michael asked. “Someone had written a dedication to him.”

“According to Mrs. Penny, the envelope had never been opened.”

I pulled out my phone so that we could gaze once more at the black-and-white woodcut print of the sparrow hawk. “To my own sparrow hawk,” it read. “Swift, silent, sure.”

“Police must've searched Addleton's lodge and buildings first off, don't you think?” I looked straight out the windscreen as I asked.

“I'd say they did.”

“I wonder if they missed anything. I wish we could take a look.”

Michael's head whipped round, his eyes wide in disbelief. “Breaking and entering?”

“Certainly not,” I said. “I wasn't suggesting anything of the sort—I only said I wish we could pay him a visit. I'd tell him I met the Drakes—and we'd see what sort of reaction we got from him.”

“We'll let the police handle it.”

“Yes, yes. But handle what? ‘Look, Inspector Callow, thirty-something years ago Geoffrey Addleton worked in Essex where five-year-old Freddy Peacock lived. Addleton killed Freddy over a sparrow hawk.' ” I sighed. “She won't be happy with us, I'm sure. But if it shifts the spotlight from Cecil, it may be enough. I wonder should I ring Linus first. He's been so upset about Cecil lately, it wouldn't surprise me if he didn't try to confess to Freddy's murder himself, in hopes of pushing Cecil out of the police's viewfinder.”

“Would Cecil even have access to mevinphos?” Michael asked.

“He would have access through Adam,” I said. “Adam has a shed full of chemicals—leftovers from years past, and probably loads of them that were banned long ago. If kept well, they'd have a long shelf life. Mevinphos might be there.”

“But why would Cecil poison birds?”

“Yes, it's all too outdoorsy for Cecil. If he were going to kill Freddy, why not push an antique armoire over on him or throw him in front of a bus in London? Mevinphos much more suits Addleton. It's just that Cecil was being blackmailed, and he won't say where he was that night.”

“But now we've this envelope—and the feather.” Michael looked at my phone in my lap. “Will you ring or shall I?”

“I'll do it.”

And so I rang DI Callow, who didn't answer. Maybe she and Chloe had struck out on the Essex Way and were walking to Coggeshall and back. I left no message.