Empty Nest (11 page)

After lunch, Vesta left to distribute fliers and solicit prizes for the quiz night, first reminding me to ring Linus. I tried him again but had to leave another message. I didn't want him thinking I had some dire announcement, so I kept it light. “Nothing urgent, don't worry. I'll talk with you soon.”

I made myself a cup of tea and sat quietly for a moment, watching the steam rise from my cup and letting my thoughts drift. I'd had a good night's sleep after the events of Monday night into Tuesday morning, and thought I could carry on as normal. I hadn't realized the effect Freddy's death had on me until Addleton needled me—it was as if he knew what to say to set me off. My phone rang and I jumped, a surge of adrenaline getting me ready to talk with Linus. But it was my dad.

“Jools, why haven't you phoned to tell me what happened at the Hall?”

Well, I didn't need to, did I? “Did Michael tell you? Is it in the news?”

“Yes to both,” he said. “Although only a small item online.”

“I didn't want you to worry. Did Beryl get off all right?”

“She's already arrived at Bianca's. Listen, why don't I come over there and see how you are?”

My dad—his wife gone for eight hours and already at loose ends.

“There's no need for that, but listen.” I described to him Sergeant Glossop's shock when I mentioned the poisoned sparrow hawks.

“That Inspector Callow left me a message wanting to talk,” he said. “I'll ring her now.”

A quarter of an hour later, as I dusted shelving and peered out the window for Michael, he rang back.

“She had a fair few questions for me,” he said, sounding none too pleased. “I told her I believed it to be mevinphos. She wanted to know when it was banned, if it has an odor, how fast it worked, how much it would take to…Well, I told her I'd get back to her with a report.” His voice drifted off. “Mind you,” he returned with force, “I'm happy to answer her questions, but I don't see why she wouldn't answer any of mine. Does this mean that fellow Peacock was poisoned? Is it safe for you to stay at the Hall? That's what I want to know.”

“I'm perfectly safe. I don't want you to worry about that—you've far too much going on. And I'm expecting Michael to stop by.”

“Is that why I gave him the afternoon off?” Dad asked. “Well, it's all right—he certainly works hard enough. But please remind him I want to see next week's schedule.”

“He remembers to copy the crew, doesn't he? You know how Basil Blandy needs at least a week to be ready for any filming.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I still miss you working alongside me.”

“Michael is a fantastic assistant.”

“He is that. I can't complain.”

And there he came—I spotted Michael as he parked a few doors down and walked up the high street. “Bye, Dad.”

Michael had come straight from his meeting about the new foundation; he still had on a dark suit with a shirt of a pale, dusky blue that turned his eyes the same blue-gray color. His black hair was in its usual disarray, and he'd loosened his tie. He stood for a moment, glancing to the back of the TIC. But we were alone. I slipped into his arms and he held me fast, triggering a release of all the dreadful images in my mind, even squeezing a few tears out of me that I didn't know were there. I didn't want to let go, but a shadow passed the window, and I remembered I was at work.

“That's silly, now,” I said as I whisked away the tears.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Is that the way you greet all your visitors here in Smeaton-under-Lyme?”

I laughed. “We're a welcoming village.”

He took my chin between thumb and forefinger. “You all right?”

“Pffft,”
I said. “Little thing like a dead body in my corridor can't get to me.”

I'm glad to say he knew better, and took it upon himself to provide some much-needed comfort.

Resting my forehead against his cheek, I said, “It's as if the ordinary parts of that evening have melted away. I told the police all of it, of course, but what I remember now is leaving you and driving back, but after that, what stands out are the awful bits.”

“You're still in shock,” Michael said.

“Come on,” I said, leading him to the back. I switched the kettle on. “I'm sorry I've no cake for you.” Instead, I dug out the last of the biscuits, which were mostly broken pieces. We held hands over tea, and I told him about Sergeant Glossop's visit and showed him my photos of the bird print.

“Coincidence?” Michael asked. “Dead sparrow hawks on Saturday, and dead Freddy Peacock on Monday—in possession of a picture of a sparrow hawk.”

“Freddy poisons birds and the birds strike back?” I shrugged. “I can't see the connection and we still don't know for certain how he died.” I drew my finger along the back of Michael's hand. “Will you stay to dinner?”

“Stoat and Hare?”

“No, at the Hall—it'll be fun.”

“Fun? Is that what you've been describing to me lately?”

His eyes sparked like flint, and so I knew he meant yes. “I'll ring Sheila. And Linus.” I jumped up. “Oh God.”

“You think he'll say no?”

“It isn't that—it's the pub quiz on Friday. He doesn't know yet.” I plopped back in my chair and told him the story.

“That's brilliant,” Michael said. “You did the right thing.”

“But I shouldn't have done it without him knowing—not that he won't say yes, it's only, well, he is in charge.” I grabbed my phone. “Right, here goes. And I can tell him you'll be at dinner.”

“He'll like that, won't he?”

“He's always saying I should ask friends,” I said, as if Linus were my dad.

“His Lordship fancies you,” Michael said.

I leaned over the table and gave Michael a kiss that told him whom I fancied. I was put into Linus's voicemail again. I would leave the subject of the pub quiz night for when we could discuss it face-to-face. “Linus, I wanted to let you know that Michael is able to come to dinner at the Hall tonight—and so we'll see you soon. And also, there's something else I want to talk with you about. Later.”

I rang Sheila, too, to let her know. For the first time in a while, I looked forward to dinner at Hoggin Hall.

We dawdled in the TIC after closing. I spoke briefly with the cook at the Royal Oak, promising extra help in the kitchen Friday evening. Michael began assembling questions for the quiz—I couldn't believe it when he told me how many we would need—eight rounds of ten questions each. And at least two rounds needed to be about the war, the Americans, and, I supposed, airplanes.

Not a sign of life when we walked into Hoggin Hall, but I knew everyone would gather for drinks soon. “I need to go up to my room and change,” I said to Michael as I hung our coats on the rack.

“You need any help with that?” he asked.

I took hold of his tie, got nose-to-nose, and whispered, “If I take you up to my bedroom, I'm afraid I'd never let you out again.”

“Ooh,” he said, his hands on my hips, “I like the sound of that.”

“Come along,” I said, leading him round the staircase. “I'll leave you in the library. Thorne will be in before long to get the drinks tray ready, and I'll be back before anyone else appears.”

I had taken longer than I intended to change. After rifling through my wardrobe in search of that lovely blue sweater the color of Michael's eyes, I switched earrings twice, and when I fluffed my hair in the mirror, I realized I was in desperate need of a trim. Until my move to Smeaton-under-Lyme—a sudden change in my life—my hair had been long and easily dealt with by tying it back or twisting it into a bun. Now, with a stylish bob and long fringe, it needed regular attention. I texted Rosy at The Hair Strand for an appointment.
Right,
I thought, catching my reflection one more time before I headed down,
this'll have to do.

I reached the library door as Michael said, “You might want to hear what she has to say first.”

Conversation ceased when I stepped in, and all eyes turned to me, but not in a good way. Cecil had one hand on the mantel, a drink in the other hand, and an eyebrow raised. Linus frowned—his brows furrowed so tightly that his face seemed squashed. Addleton stood stiff and straight. Michael, with a solemn look, came straight for me and took my hand.

“Mr. Addleton was just asking his Lordship about the pub quiz on Friday,” he said.

You snake,
I thought, glaring at the agent. He had sensed I hadn't told Linus and couldn't wait to tattle and see what trouble he could dump me in. I squeezed Michael's hand before walking over to the fireplace grouping, holding my head high.

“And I hope you explained the details?” I asked Addleton. “What a fine opportunity we have to increase awareness of the Fotheringill estate to overseas tourists? What a boon this could be to all concerned?” I turned to Linus, wishing I could apologize profusely, only not in front of Addleton and Cecil. “This was a last-minute opportunity, Linus; I'm sorry I wasn't able to get you on the phone. I did try.”

Linus held up his hand. “We'll discuss this later, Julia.” His voice was distant and distinctly aloof with a note of disappointment. But when he glanced at Michael, I realized he may be more annoyed that Michael knew about the event before he did than he was at me for thinking it up to begin with.

“There's no need,” I said. “I'm happy to explain my thought process to everyone here.” I had had no thought process, but I couldn't explain that.

“Your Lordship, you shouldn't let yourself be talked into any wild scheme,” Addleton said.

“I don't
talk
Lord Fotheringill into anything,” I shot back. “He's perfectly capable of weighing the benefits and costs of a project based on the facts.”

“Quiz nights cost little to put on and pay off soundly with what the bar takes in,” Michael said. “And that's apart from the exposure. I wouldn't dismiss it out of hand. Julia saw a good opportunity and took it.” I could've kissed him right then and there. I'd catch up later.

“The tour director emailed me at the end of the day,” I said. “Thirty of her group jumped at the chance to attend the pub quiz. Add to that a crowd of locals and the place will be heaving. And more importantly, we've made a contact—this woman brings American groups over twice a year.”

“Don't you need quite a few people to help out for the evening?” Cecil asked.

Yes, we did—a dozen at least. Keeping an eye on the tables, signing teams in, scoring each round. Hadn't quite sorted that yet. The silence in the room was deafening as I ran down the possibilities, Vesta, Akash, me, Michael, Willow. I looked across at Michael. His eyebrows were slightly raised—he was asking if I needed help in laying out my case. No, I had to do this on my own.

“We've already had several people volunteer,” I said, which may not have been technically true but was true in spirit, because I knew they would as soon as I asked.

“Who'll run the quiz?” Addleton asked.

One last punch to the gut. I searched my brain while the room waited for my pronouncement. To run a pub quiz, you needed to be outgoing, fun, able to handle a crowd and make a joke, too. Not afraid of appearing in public, accustomed to extemporaneous speaking. Doesn't hurt if you've got a recognizable name.

My eyes locked on Michael's, and at the same moment we both said, “Rupert.” We laughed and the others murmured—what, approval?

“Sir Rupert now,” Michael added. Yes, Dad had been on the Queen's birthday honors list in June.

I looked at Linus, waiting for his judgment. I could hear the seconds ticking away. His face revealed nothing as he stared at the pattern on the rug.
Trust me, Linus, please.
At last, he looked up and gave me a small smile.

“We'll all help out,” he said. “Thorne, Cecil. You, too, Addleton.”

I could've kissed him at that moment—Linus, that is. “Thank you. Really, it'll be a wonderful evening.”

The atmosphere lightened. Michael and I sat on the love seat while Cecil and Linus took chairs on either side of the fireplace; Addleton remained standing. We chatted about the estate during the war. Linus confirmed my story about officers billeted in the Hall, but hesitated for a moment when Addleton asked where—apparently, the north wing had been used, including Freddy's room. A dark cloud appeared in our midst, and we all took a moment to think of Freddy—at least, I supposed we did—before picking up and carrying on.

Linus had finished telling a story about a farmer off the estate who, only a few years ago, had plowed up a nest of bicycles that had been buried by departing American servicemen, when Thorne appeared at the library door. We rose, ready for the call to dinner.

“Your Lordship, Inspector Callow and Sergeant Glossop are here.” We stood like statues, as if moving would somehow make us look guilty. “Shall I show them in?”

“Yes, of course.”

Thorne disappeared, and we waited. I fingered my empty sherry glass, and I saw Addleton down the rest of his whisky. At last, the police walked in, looking much as they had at four o'clock Tuesday morning, well put together in their suits, but this time without a collar point out of place. The sergeant had the large portfolio under his arm. I stared at it and up at him; he caught my eye and looked away.

“We're sorry to disturb you so late in the day,” DI Callow said, her cool eyes scanning our faces and stopping at Michael's. “And you have a guest.” An unspoken request for identification.

Michael crossed the room, hand outstretched. “Michael Sedgwick.” He took Callow's hand for a brief shake; Glossop offered his up with a smile.

“Michael's a friend of mine,” I said. “He works with my father.”

Callow rested her frosty gaze on Michael.

“Whatever you were going to tell us you can say in front of him,” I said. “He knows about Freddy. Do you have more information?”

The DI paused for only a moment. “We've reason to believe that Mr. Peacock did not die by accident and that the fire had no bearing on his death.”

Callow was late with this pronouncement—hadn't the rest of us reached that conclusion already?

“We are waiting for a toxicology report,” she continued. “Not only on the body. There were drinks and a half-eaten sandwich nearby, and those are being tested, too.”

I backed up a couple of steps until I felt the love seat behind me and sat. They all turned toward me. “I'm all right,” I said, waving them away. Michael put his hand on my shoulder.

Poisoned birds, poisoned Freddy. Had someone seen him as a predator that needed to be stopped?

“Lord Palgrave, you knew Mr. Peacock in London?” Callow asked.

“Yes, we both worked in the Auction Rooms. Well, I worked there briefly.”

The inspector gave her sergeant a look, and Glossop scribbled in his notebook.

“Your Lordship,” Callow said, “would you mind a private word for a moment, and then we'll leave you to your dinner?”

“Of course,” Linus said. “Why don't you all go ahead?”

“Ms. Lanchester, Mr. Sedgwick,” Callow said. We held up as Cecil and Addleton continued to the dining room. “The two of you were involved in a death near Mildenhall in the spring, weren't you?”

“Involved?” I asked, the picture of innocence. I looked at Michael. “I'm not sure what you mean by that. We found a body, we asked a few questions. I believe the police were grateful for our input.”

“Grateful,” Callow repeated. “Well, you'll be relieved to know that we have a full complement of officers on duty in Sudbury, and we won't require your further assistance in this matter.”

“And what about information a citizen may happen upon?” Michael asked.

“Any information ‘happened upon' should be handed over to the police and not acted upon in any way.”

Michael delivered a “Yes, ma'am” that I thought might land him in the nick, but we escaped and left Linus to the wolf.

“She's being a bit possessive,” I whispered in a strained voice. “You'd think they'd be happy for the help.”