Empty Nest (12 page)

With Michael in attendance, I had looked forward to a more enjoyable evening at the Hall than I'd had for a while. Now, seated for our dinner, a specter of death hovered over the table.

“Shall I serve?” Thorne asked the room.

Cecil should answer, but he appeared to be absorbed in his table setting and didn't look up, so I said, “Yes, Thorne, please go ahead. We don't know how long his Lordship will be.”

Not long, although when Linus did appear in the middle of the soup course, his face had drained of color, and his eyes darted first to his son and then to me.

An unspoken understanding permeated the dinner table—we would not talk of unpleasantness. Linus, instead, seized upon the pub quiz night and the war.

“Netherford House,” Linus said, “was used as a hospital during the war. They organized a wonderful exhibit—must be more than thirty years ago now—to show what the house had looked like during that time. They even turned a section of the dining hall into a ward as it had been. Isabel and I went to see it.”

The rare mention of Linus's ex-wife gave me a start. Strange how memories emerged. I wondered if it had been a happy time for them.

“Netherford House that's now Villiers Country Hotel?” Michael asked.

“Yes,” Linus said. “Sad affair, the family being forced to sell up.”

“Is it?” Michael asked. “The family got a fine price for the property, allowing them to move to a villa in Tuscany. The new owners have retained historic elements and met all requirements for the Grade II listing. As many staff as wanted to stay were given work, and the family has permanent quarters to come back to each summer.”

I shot Michael a questioning look, wondering at his knowledge.

“A client of ours,” he explained. Ah, a client of his family's public relations firm, HMS, Ltd.

But Linus would not be made happy about the situation.

“The British aristocracy,” he said glumly, “on display as if in a zoo.”

“I hope you don't think you've been put on display,” I said, “with the Hall open three afternoons a week.”

“Certainly not, Julia,” Linus said with the emphasis of one caught in an embarrassment. “Your innovative ideas are putting me in touch with my tenants—you've brought life back to the Fotheringill estate. And to Hoggin Hall.”

“Thank you,” I said, blushing. Everyone got back to eating, and I hoped no one noticed Michael roll his eyes at me.

“That's quite a crush his Lordship has on you,” Michael said as we stood next to his car in the courtyard. He had put on his coat and then wrapped his arms round me.

“Perhaps it's that he admires my fantastic ideas.”

“That goes without saying, but some people won't listen no matter how great the idea. You not only have the great ideas, but you also take care of every last detail. He knows he can rely on you.”

“Yes, well, let's just see if I can follow through on my promise to reel in the famous Rupert Lanchester as quizmaster.”

“Just remember,” Michael said, “I'm the one who sets his schedule.”

I closed the door in the entry. I should go back into the library and finish the evening with Linus, Addleton, and Cecil, but I chose to head for the kitchen instead—I'd volunteer to help with washing up. I pushed open the swinging door to find Thorne and Sheila standing close to each other at the sink in deep, low conversation. I caught only a couple of words—“deserved” and “silence”—before they realized I was there, and they broke apart.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn't mean to…I wanted to help with the dishes.”

“No, we're fine in here, Julia,” Sheila said with a red face.

“Right. Well, good night,” I said, and backed out the door.

I was not to be let off the hook so easily about quiz night. I had made it halfway across the entry when Cecil called to me from the library door.

“Julia, do you have a moment?”

Isn't that always the question—and what was I supposed to answer?
No, Cecil, I don't have a moment, so shove off.

“Of course,” I said, hoping to convey the idea that I was happy to accommodate yet extremely tired. “What do you need?”

“I've several specific questions about the pub quiz night. I know Michael said the costs were low, but still I'd like the firm numbers. And I'd also like to run over details about the Christmas Market now that I know more about it.”

Linus appeared in the middle of Cecil's demands. “It's a bit late, Cecil—why don't you talk with Julia about this tomorrow?”

“Yes,” I said, giving Linus a grateful smile. “You could email me these questions, and I can send you the answers first thing in the morning—I'll run the numbers and give you anything else you need.”

“Well, I certainly don't want to keep you,” Cecil said, as if I were trying to clock out early. “I'll drop by the TIC in the morning, and when you've a break, you can answer my questions.”

I waited on the landing in my pajamas and listened before I went down for my cocoa, worried that if I ran into Cecil again, he'd come out the worse for it and I'd lose my position as manager of the TIC. Silence. Good, everyone had gone to bed. I made my way to the kitchen with as much stealth as possible in an old enormous house that creaked and groaned at the slightest provocation. I had just set the milk on to heat when I heard the kitchen door swing open.

“Julia,” Linus said, putting his head in. “I hope you don't think I'm following you about.”

“Come in, Linus. Would you like cocoa?”

“Oh, well…” The offer seemed to throw him off for a moment, but at last he answered with enthusiasm. “Yes, I'd love some—I haven't had cocoa before bed in years.”

I added more milk to the saucepan, and Linus sat at the table watching me spoon chocolate into our mugs.

“Did the police show you that woodcut print of the sparrow hawk?” I asked.

“They did,” Linus said. “But I couldn't help them.”

“It didn't come from here? I thought perhaps Freddy had found it in the attic.”

“It isn't familiar to me—the Fotheringills have always gone in more for landscapes, and of course the family portraits.”
But what about the dead sparrow hawks?
I thought. Linus drummed his fingers on the table. “They've asked Cecil in to the station tomorrow.”

“Won't they ask each of us in? Perhaps they're beginning with Cecil because he knew Freddy best—because they'd worked together in the Auction Rooms. Don't you think?”

“Yes, I'm afraid that is it,” Linus said.

Thorne pushed open the door. Dressed for bed, he carried a book in one hand with his forefinger stuck in a page. “Your Lordship, tomorrow is cleaning day.” One morning a week a platoon of maids came from a business in the village and cleaned the Hall. Sheila took charge of them, and in a remarkably short time not a speck of dust was to be found. “Is the Mulberry Room to remain off-limits?” For a brief time it had become Freddy Peacock's room, but three centuries of calling it the Mulberry Room won out over a few days and a tragic death.

“No, Inspector Callow said that the police had all they needed,” Linus said. “We must have someone in to deal with the damage, of course.”

“Yes, sir. Good night, Ms. Lanchester.”

When the milk had come to a simmer, I poured, stirred, and settled across from Linus. He sat for so long holding his mug of cocoa that finally I thought I should get his attention.

“Did you want to tell me something?” I asked, hoping I didn't need to put up another defense for quiz night.

“I wanted to explain,” he said, “why Cecil always asks to talk with you instead of reading reports or sending emails. Why he recorded the meeting that first day, instead of taking his own notes.”

I thought he did those things to make me feel as uncomfortable as possible, but if there were a better reason, then I was all ears.

“He has a learning problem, you see.” Linus shook his head at his own words. “That sounds odd to say now that he's an adult—but these things don't just go away. Dyslexia. He's quite bright, but he doesn't see things properly—he says that letters and numbers seem to dance about on the page. Sometimes he mixes up letters—‘b,' ‘d,' and ‘p' were always difficult. I was surprised when he recorded the meeting, but when I thought about it, I could see how it might help him. He can listen to what we talked about instead of trying to read.”

“Did he not get help at school?” Surely those high fees went for something.

“He received humiliation at school—and not only from other students. No, school was always a struggle for him. He's terribly self-conscious—even now he'll barely speak of it to anyone.”

That put me in my place; it wasn't that he was trying to annoy me.
You shouldn't jump to conclusions, Julia.
Duly chastised, I took a swig of cocoa and said, “Work must be difficult for him.”

Linus nodded. “Anything with reading. Or numbers. Yes,” he said. “It can be a problem.”

We were quiet for a moment. I decided to find out more about the other bane of my existence.

“Mr. Addleton,” I said. “He seems quite eager for the estate to succeed.” I almost laughed at my own choice of words; as of yet, dour Mr. Addleton had not once looked eager about anything.

“He may seem a bit stern,” Linus said, smiling, “but Mr. Addleton came highly recommended for the post of estate agent.”

“How did you find him?”

Linus raised his eyebrows. “I didn't find him—he found me.”

“He saw your listing about the position?”

“No.” Linus shook his head. “I never had the chance to advertise. Addleton contacted me last year. He'd been working at an estate in Dorset for the past twenty years, but he's originally from Essex. He'd heard that the Fotheringill estate was without an agent.”

“But, a year ago, and you didn't hire him then?”

“No. I told him I was considering reestablishing the post, and if I did, I would let him know.”

“And his employers gave him a good reference?”

“The Drakes—indeed they did. And there's no shooting on their estate—in an odd way, I felt it was a connection between the two of us.”

“Still, you took a risk in taking him on.”

“I suppose,” Linus said, a slight frown appearing on his brow. “But at the time, I thought how fortuitous. And I've not regretted it—he's more than capable. The Drakes said they were sad to see him leave, but as he seemed determined to move on, they could only wish him well.” Linus swished the last of his cocoa before drinking it down. He looked at me and his face brightened. “A few months after he first contacted me, I decided to advertise for a tourism manager. We've been on the upswing ever since. And so when Addleton contacted me again in July, we made our arrangements.”

Yes, quite a list of accomplishments for the Fotheringill estate. The Tourist Information Center, a new agent, and now a murder in Hoggin Hall.

“Just how many hours a week do you put in for the Fotheringill estate?” my sister asked me on the phone the next morning. I stood at the sink in the back of the TIC, fishing a tea bag out of my mug and longing for one of Nuala's scones to go with it.

“I have regular hours the same as anyone,” I said, although that wasn't strictly true, as I worked six out of seven days. “It's only that living at the Hall, it's so easy to slip into work-related conversation.”

“Especially during those late-night chats with Loverboy Linus?”

“Bee,” I said, chastising her. I had mentioned early on that Linus had taken a fancy to me and my sister had not let up since. “How are you feeling?”

“Beryl caught me scrubbing out the cupboards in the laundry room and made me take a nap yesterday afternoon,” Bianca said. My sister had developed the nesting syndrome to the extreme a week or so before each of her first three children were born, so this event held great significance.

“Any day now,” I said.

“God, I wish it was any minute. I'm about to go round the bend.”

“Well, when Ezekiel arrives…”

Bee sniggered and said, “Don't start.”

I couldn't help the dig. Her first three children were Emelia, Enid, and Emmet, for no reason that she or her husband, Paul, had ever revealed, and so I had spent the months of this pregnancy trying to guess what they'd come up with. Trouble was, I had long ago run out of normal names that begin with “e” and had lately resorted to biblical references and Greek playwrights. “Euripides?” I had asked one day, and Bee had laughed so hard she had to go change her knickers.

“How will you come down when the baby arrives if you're working that Dickensian schedule?” Bianca demanded.

“I'm not a slave, Bee. I'll ask Linus for a few days off, and he'll say yes. Vesta can take care of everything here with no trouble.”

“How's Michael?”

Bianca loved to hear details about Michael and me—I mean, every single detail—but she'd have to wait. The bell above the door jingled, and Cecil walked in.
Right, buck up, Julia. Be kind.

“Good morning, Cecil, come through,” I said. “Tea?”

To my astonishment, Cecil carried a pink bakery box. I stared at it for a moment, and when I looked up to him, his face was just as pink.

“I stopped at Nuala's Tea Room,” he said, clearing his throat and holding out the box. “Cheese-and-bacon scones. She said to tell you she hadn't finished the chocolate cake yet.”

A peace offering. He wasn't such a bad sort, now was he?

“Well, let's sit down and talk—quiz night, Christmas Market. I can go over the preliminary schedule for the Boxing Day Bird Count. What do you think?”

I pretended not to notice Cecil's phone, which he placed between us on the table, recording our session. He asked questions and I answered them, and we seemed to do just fine. Until I brought up the subject of Freddy.

“Were you able to give the police any more information about Freddy when you went in this morning?” I asked.

Cecil stopped the recording and put his phone in his jacket. “My father has quite taken you into his confidence, hasn't he?”

I let that remark sting for only a moment. “He isn't telling me the family secrets, if that's what you're worried about. He's concerned about you. I don't see a problem with that.”

“Yes—concerned I'll make a shambles of the estate. Wishing he had another chance to make the perfect heir, someone who meets all the standards of a proper Lord Fotheringill.”

He said the hurtful words, but the odd thing was, they sounded memorized, as if he were repeating someone else.

“I don't believe your father would want such a thing—even if you haven't spent your whole life here. I know he treasured the school holidays you spent at the Hall. Where did you and your mother live? Where did you grow up?”

“I grew up at school,” he said without looking at me, and I could not begrudge him his little-boy pout.

Before I left for dinner at the Hall, I rang DS Glossop. I wanted to hear him say that, of course, Cecil was under no suspicion and that asking him into the station had been routine. I wanted to tell Linus he had nothing to worry about.

Natty Glossop did not oblige.

“He's the only one who knew Freddy Peacock, and yet he won't say where he was or with whom on Monday evening—only that he was not at the Hall. It never looks good when that happens,” the sergeant said in a world-weary voice, as if he'd worked on a dozen murder cases.

“Are you saying he's a suspect?” I whispered furtively. I was alone in the TIC, but it didn't seem like news that even those four walls should hear.

“Why will he not even try to give a reasonable explanation?”

“It's only if he were guilty of something that he would feel compelled to cover his tracks,” I said. “To make something up and give you loads of false details.”

The sergeant paused. “Well, possibly.”

“Last week, a woman in a red sports car dropped Cecil and Freddy at the Hall. She and Freddy seemed quite…close. A crime of passion? Sergeant, you are keeping an open mind, aren't you?”

“I can do no less,” Glossop replied airily. “Mr. Fotheringill could give us only her first name—Katya. That evening was the first time he'd met her. Mr. Thorne offered a description of the scene you mention, and we are endeavoring to track this woman down.”