Empty Nest (28 page)

“Stop!”
I screamed, waving my arms and throwing the chair off me. “Don't come any closer—don't touch her. Sergeant Glossop, ring for an ambulance.” Isabel dropped to the bench seat, shaking.

“Are you hurt?” he asked me.

“No, not me—Lady Fotheringill.” I scrambled to my feet but picked up the chair and kept hold of it to steady myself. “She drank some of the pesticide that poisoned the sparrow hawks—and Freddy Peacock.” Now was not the moment to quibble about slow toxicology reports.

“Isabel!” I grabbed her wrist. “How much did you drink? How strong was the mixture?”

She bent over and retched.

“Ms. Lanchester, come out of there,” Glossop said, taking latex gloves from his pocket and snapping them on in a wink. He looked to his PCs, who followed suit.

“Sergeant,” I said, trying to control my unsteady voice. “Not only what she drank—it's all over her, the powder. She needs to remove her clothes and get into the shower. She can use my bathroom.” I nodded behind them.

“No, Ms. Lanchester, you will take care of yourself here—we'll remove Lady Fotheringill to another room.”

As the sergeant began barking orders, I looked down at my arms and saw the thick layer of white dust and granules covering my sleeves. I could feel the stuff sift through my hair. I began to shake—I was out of breath and my heart raced; I felt giddy and my chest was tight. Was this mevinphos or the aftereffects of confronting Isabel? My legs gave out and I sank down onto the bench next to her.

Two gloved female PCs took Isabel by the arms. She put up no protest, and they led her away.

“Ms. Lanchester,” the DS said, “the ambulance is on its way.”

“I don't need it—I can manage here.”

“Well, I'd say you'd better get to it, then.”

Another female PC led me to the bathroom, set the bath stool in the shower, helped me out of my clothes, and turned on the water, leaving only after I convinced her that I would be safe. I sat on the stool, holding the bath bar with one hand, and let the hot water beat on me. I comforted myself by remembering that Dad said the pesticide washed away quickly.

I shampooed and soaped up twice, spending twenty minutes in the shower, most of it seated, wishing I could soak in a long, hot bath instead. I thought about what a mess Isabel had made, and what it might do to Cecil, and to Linus when he found out Cecil was not his son. I thought about Addleton, who was complicit in murder by his silence. I thought of my work and longed for a quiet day in the TIC when the biggest problem was running out of leaflets about the Vikings. I thought of my Pipit Cottage, and that's when a sob caught in my throat, and I was happy that the water running from the shower could wash my tears away before anyone saw.

I dried off and wrapped myself in the enormous towel. I had nothing to wear; the PC had taken my contaminated clothes away in a bin bag. I could hear voices and movement in my room, and so I sat in the bathroom on a small bench comforted by a two-bar electric heater, and waited, content to be quiet and out of the fray. I would stay put until someone brought me clothes or they all left and I could make it to my wardrobe. Time passed. A few minutes? A half hour? I couldn't say—and a knock came at the door.

“Julia?” Michael asked. I gave a little cry. “May I come in?”

“Yes,” I said. He slipped in, came to me, and pulled me up. The warmth of the little electric heater was nothing to his arms.

“How did you know where I was?” I asked.

“Glossop.”

“I thought they'd forgot all about me.”

“There's a female PC sitting outside the door,” he said, nodding toward my room. “They've taken Isabel to hospital,” he said at last. “And after that, it'll be the police station. They've sent someone round to collect Addleton, too. They got hold of Linus and Cecil.”

“Will I have to go in?” All my symptoms—whether real or imagined—had disappeared, and now I was overcome with weariness.

“How do you feel?” Michael asked, frowning and stepping back to look me over—good excuse for it. “You should see a doctor.”

“I feel perfectly fine,” I said, chin in the air. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“What a surprise to hear you say that.” His eyes sparked briefly. “Callow's on her way here—said she'll talk to you in the kitchen.”

“Oh, won't that be fun.” I looked down at my towel. “She can't talk to me all day—I open the TIC at twelve.”

“No, you won't,” he said. “I rang Vesta—she can be there by one o'clock, after she finishes playing the organ at St. Swithun's.”

“But she's worked for me practically all of last week, and I've done nothing.”

“You've tracked down a murderer and uncovered the skeleton in the Fotheringill closet. I'd say that's enough, and you deserve a rest.”

“You were there,” I said, more than willing to share the credit—especially as I wasn't sure how Callow would look on our snooping. “We'd never have found Mrs. Penny if not for you.”

He touched the place high on my cheek where Isabel had made contact. I'd have a fine black eye, and bruises on the back of my arms, too, where I stopped the piece of firewood. Michael kissed each place and said, “You're not working today.”

“Right.” I sighed. “Kitchen it is. Just as well—I missed my breakfast.”

Michael and I told our story to DI Callow over countless cups of tea and plates of sandwiches as the afternoon wore on. We got a dressing-down about withholding information, but we pointed out we had nothing to hand over until the end—and I had promised that to her for Monday. It's just that Monday hadn't come soon enough. She didn't appear sold on this explanation, but neither did she arrest us. Linus and Cecil, she told us, were at the station. I tried to imagine what sort of conversation they'd have with Isabel—and Addleton—but it was beyond even me to make up that scene.

Sheila and Thorne heard the story when they arrived back at Hoggin Hall about five o'clock. Thorne rested his hands at the edge of the table. “And so,” he said, “the dream I had that night about Lady Fotheringill returning wasn't a dream at all. If only I'd realized it then, if only I'd been awake enough to say something to her, it might have prevented Mr. Peacock's death.”

Sheila covered his hand with hers. “You may have delayed her, but I doubt anyone could've stopped her.”

We were silent again.

I rang Dad and told him the entire story. He advised—I use the term lightly—that I not sleep in my own room until it had been cleaned thoroughly. He insisted I go to Cambridge—Michael wanted me to stay with him at Vesta's—and I thought about the rooms above the Stoat and Hare. It was a bit too much for me, and in the end, as Sheila's room had been given the all-clear, I opted to once again camp out on her daybed, tired to my bones of being a nomad.

After a light supper, Michael reluctantly left for Vesta's, and I reluctantly let him go.

“Your day off tomorrow,” he said.

With my forefinger, I traced his eyebrows, the little scar high on his cheek, his lips—just for the pure pleasure of the moment. At last I said, “I will start packing.”

I was in Sheila's room, pulling on pajamas, when we heard voices in the entry. Linus and Cecil had returned. They'd talked with the police and with Isabel, and they'd even had a long—supervised—session with Addleton, also being held. Could he be prosecuted for being blinded by love?

I padded down the corridor for cocoa. By the time Linus appeared, I had both mugs out and the milk on to simmer. He looked miserable, yet peaceful in a strange way—I wanted to give him a hug, but thought better of it, and instead offered my deepest sympathies, which he accepted only on condition I accept his deepest apology for putting me in any danger.

I set his cocoa in front of him, and he fiddled with the mug for so long—moving it an inch this way or that, shifting the handle left and right—that I thought it would grow cold before he ever took a sip. At last, with a sad and sheepish smile, he said, “I knew he wasn't mine, of course. Have known all along.”

He knew. He'd endured years of deception while knowing all the while he wasn't the father of the son he loved. A fresh wave of anger toward Isabel threatened to engulf me—if she hadn't been locked up at that moment, I would've gone and done her over. It was the least she deserved.

“We'd been married only a year,” he continued, “and she wasn't happy. I didn't know what to do, and I'm afraid I just ignored the whole matter. And then she started seeing him—I didn't know it was Addleton, of course, but I knew why she went out each week. Addleton told me they'd met when Isabel and I visited Netherford for that hospital exhibit from the War. The affair went on about six months before it stopped. And then she was pregnant.”

At last he had taken a swig of cocoa—cool enough to gulp—and went on.

“But it's never mattered to me,” he said. “He must understand that. Cecil is as much my son as if…as if he were my son.”

Everyone moved carefully the next morning, afraid of tearing open a wound that just might have the opportunity to heal itself if left alone. I went to the kitchen and made my tea. Sheila bustled in and out, stopping occasionally to shake her head at nothing in particular. At last she joined me.

“She was stitching you up, Sheila,” I said, my emotions continuing to alternate between sympathy and anger toward Isabel. I'd said it the afternoon before, but I didn't mind repeating myself. “Making it look as if it were you trying to poison me. She didn't care where she threw suspicion—you, Geoffrey Addleton, Linus.”

Sheila couldn't reply as Linus walked in.

We exchanged good mornings as Sheila set down tea in front of him before making her excuses—something about dusting the grand dining hall.

Linus filled me in on more details of Isabel's case. The problem was, poison points toward premeditation, not a passionate act in a moment of madness, and so it could go badly for her. Addleton stood by his statement that he had no knowledge of Isabel's actions, and Linus promised to do everything he could to help Addleton. I saw this as a selfless, noble gesture, but Linus said what good would it do him to have Cecil mourn for a father—Addleton—locked away because he had protected his mother.

At that moment, Cecil pushed open the kitchen door and looked in. “Father—oh, hello, Julia.” He looked like a young man who had aged a decade overnight, but he held his head high, and I admired him for that.

“Hello, Cecil. I'm very sorry.” What an inadequate statement, but what else was there to say?

“And I'm sorry, Julia, for all the trouble that's been caused. I hope that…you are all right.”

“I'm fine, thanks.”

“Father, I'll go with you this morning to see the solicitor about Mother's bail”—he cleared his throat—“but this afternoon, Willow and I had planned to visit a farmshop in Stratford St. Mary. She thought it might be good to focus on something positive. Will you go with us?”

“Thank you, Cecil,” Linus said, smiling. “Yes, I would like that.”

“And you, Julia. You were the first one to think of a farmshop. Please come.”

“Thank you, Cecil, but I'll wait for you to tell me about it. My day off, you know.”

Cecil left, and I smiled at Linus. “He called you ‘Father.' ”

Linus nodded. “He and Geoffrey have a great deal to work through, and I won't stand in the way of that. But Cecil is still my son and heir to the estate.” He patted my hand. “And now, Julia,” he said, looking more like himself, “if you have a few minutes, I have something in the village I want to show you. I'll cycle in and meet you on the high street.”

I went to borrow a coat from Sheila when my phone rang.

“Jools,” Dad said, “the toxicology results are in.”

“Yes, Mr. Sexiest Man in Britain 2012, host of
A Bird in the Hand
television program on BBC Two, and Indiana Jones of ornithology. However did you manage that?” I laughed at his silence. “Well, what did they find?”

“Freddy Peacock had high levels; the sandwich, tea, and whisky in his room, the same. That sandwich of yours…” He paused. “Well, she'll pay for that.”

Let her pay or not, I was finished with Isabel Fotheringill—I had a tourist center to run and a Christmas Market breathing down my neck. “Dad, we'll need to talk about the Boxing Day Bird Count—why don't Michael and I put an agenda together for you?”

Linus stood outside my Pipit Cottage. He had leaned his bike up against the wall, and held his helmet under an arm, although he'd left the trouser clip on. When I got closer, I saw that the door of the cottage was open. He smiled, and nodded for me to enter.

It took my breath away—here it was, my little cottage looking just as it always had, as if toxic mold in the walls had not turfed me out months ago. I walked three paces, which took me from the sitting room to the kitchen, where I opened cupboards and knocked on the new wall. I twirled like a little girl in a party dress.

“Really?” I asked Linus. “I can come back?”

He nodded. “Really.”

I ran up the stairs to find my bedroom in perfect order. I ran down and looked out the French doors to my little back garden.

“Would you like me to have the gardeners over to tidy up?”

“Not a bit of it,” I said, admiring the tangle of leafless stems against a dark yew. “It's perfect.”

In my room at the Hall, the alcove had blue-and-white crime-scene tape crisscrossed over the archway, but the rest was accessible. I stood on a chair and pulled my case off the top of the wardrobe, opened it, and began throwing clothes in. Soon after, I dumped them out and folded each piece properly, so that they would actually fit. My phone rang and I practically sang my “Hello.”

“Are you packing?” Michael asked.

“I am,” I said, holding up my flirty pink dress. “And you—you should start packing, too.”

“Sorry?”

“It's moving day—for both of us. My cottage is finished.”