Empty Nest (8 page)

Just gone six, I laid my head down on Sheila's daybed, knowing I would never be able to sleep. The next thing I knew, a gentle hand shook me awake.

“I'm sorry to do it, but you did say you must be up by eight,” Sheila said, as she handed me my morning cuppa.

I stretched. Sunlight poured in through the high leaded glass. Two hours' sleep—just a long nap, really. “Thanks. Did you sleep at all?” I asked with a glance at Sheila's puffy eyes.

“I'm sure we'll all catch up eventually,” she said.

I would need to plan my day around cups of tea and strong coffees just to make it to evening. “Thanks for putting me up last night—this morning—but I'm fine now. I'll go up to my room and shower.”

I saw no one, but detected a lingering scent of smoke as I climbed the stairs—although I couldn't say if it was Freddy's room or my hair. Blue-and-white police tape crisscrossed the closed door to Freddy's room. I walked past quickly.

Inside my own room, I breathed deeply, relieved at the normality of it all. Mrs. Bugg—Sheila—had brought my bag in. I stripped off the denims and sweater I'd been wearing far too long and dug out my phone, my heart pierced with happiness at the sight of a text from Michael.

“Switching off phone now—woodpeckers are safe. Talk to you soon.”

He had sent it at five-thirty. I knew from experience he could be there all day. I toyed with the idea of sending him a text, but what would I say? “Freddy Peacock is dead. Police are involved.”

Instead, I rang Vesta, after which I took a long, hot shower. I closed my eyes and let the steaming water hit my head and run down my face and back, in hopes that I could wash away all memory of Freddy lying facedown on the rug or how solid his body felt under my hands as I tried to press life back into him. But I saw it all—including the look of despair on Linus's face when he had announced that the police had arrived.

“What a terrible thing,” Vesta said, shaking her head. We met at Akash's shop in a quiet moment after the morning rush and before the TIC opened so that I could explain. As we talked, Akash arranged a nest of wood shavings in a box that displayed English wine—a new pinot noir from Essex.

“But, Julia,” Vesta continued, “you shouldn't be here at all—take the day, I'll be fine.”

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “I couldn't, Vesta—really. Far too much to do.” But she caught my eye, and I knew she understood. “And I needed to come talk to my second-in-command,” I said, nodding at Akash.

I had learned early on Akash could handle both the pensioners that made up our volunteer force as well as the public on open days at the Hall. When necessary, he had an imposing presence and a booming voice. He had retired from the British army, Vesta told me, after a career not in combat but in midlevel administration, and had taken over the village shop only a couple of years ago.

“I've got the docent schedule for this afternoon,” Akash said, reaching for a broom. “I'll talk with each of them before we open. We'll expand the talk in the grand dining room to take up more time. And do you think we could offer free cake in the café for the afternoon—if his Lordship would cover the cost with Nuala? That would go far to keeping the visitors' goodwill.”

“That's brilliant,” I said. Sorted in one—and a burden lifted off my shoulders.

Vesta held the dustpan for him as he swept up the curled wood shavings. They made a striking couple—Akash, tall, dark-skinned, with a quick smile and a smattering of silver in his black hair, and Vesta, short with a pixie haircut that in the right light appeared to have a pink tint that matched her pearly, cat-eye-framed glasses. But her most impressive quality was the ability to understand things I didn't know how to express.

“I'll ring Linus, and I'll follow up with Nuala and explain about the free cake.”

But I didn't need to—Nuala waited at the door of the TIC. Tall and lithe like a dancer, she always wore ballet flats and midcalf full skirts; she secured her tight salt-and-pepper curls in a tiny wad of a bun.

“His Lordship rang,” she said, her face full of sympathy and her hands full of a pink bakery box.

We sat over blackberry sponge and tea discussing the event and how to handle the afternoon. Freddy had frequented Nuala's Tea Room often in the few days he stayed at the Hall, and she'd thought him such a cheerful and engaging young man that she couldn't help being touched by the tragedy.

“Right,” I said at last, checking the time, “I'm off. Health and safety—I don't want to keep them waiting. And, you know, the other thing.” Fingerprinting at the Sudbury police station—I had explained to Vesta, using Callow's word: routine.

I buttoned up my coat, heard the bell jingle, and turned to see a figure backing into the TIC, using her bum to push open the door. She wore a red batik-print skirt, sleeveless red sweater over a pink blouse, and red knit beret pinned to her short, curly brown hair. She carried an enormous, unsteady stack of magazines, colored paper, boxes of paints and markers, all topped with a computer tablet. Our intern, Willow.

The young woman saw me and smiled, revealing a small gap between her front teeth. Her coloring was creamy white with a generous splattering of freckles. “Hello, good morning,” she said in her cheery, squeaky voice. “All right there, Julia?”

“Oh.” I could manage nothing else. How many times would I need to tell the story? I shot a glance at Vesta, who rose from the table.

“Willow,” she said, “Nuala's brought round a blackberry sponge. Would you like a cup of tea before you get to work?”

“Ooh, lovely.”

The church hall passed health and safety with flying colors, clearing the Women's Institute to run the tea room during the Christmas Market. My sojourn to Sudbury took all of thirty minutes—the desk sergeant nodded knowingly when I mentioned Hoggin Hall, and I hadn't needed to talk with anyone, only produce my fingers for their machine to scan, and to sign my statement.

When I returned to the TIC, I found Vesta on the phone giving details of Smeaton-under-Lyme's eating establishments—two pubs and a tea room. Willow had commandeered the table in back, getting ready for the Christmas Market meeting that evening, and when I stepped round the counter, she looked up from her work, her eyes wide and mouth drooping.

“Oh, Julia, Vesta told me what happened—how incredibly horrible for you.”

“Yes, terrible. But we mustn't let it distract us. We owe it to the estate to carry on, don't you think?”

“Absolutely—that's the spirit,” she said with an emphatic nod. “We'll have a fantastic meeting this evening. I'll be ready.”

Willow displayed her work proudly. She had printed out the names of the vendors, cramming all seventy of them onto one sheet of paper, and had spent the morning cutting each one out using nail scissors. Now, she explained to me, she would take the bits of paper and glue them onto a poster board to show each stall's location on the village green. She had decorated the board with festive scenes she'd torn out of old issues of
Country Life.
Willow would make a wonderful primary school teacher.

Vesta bought us sandwiches for lunch, which we ate in our laps, afraid to disturb the heap of what looked like confetti resting on the table—Willow's grand plan. Soon after, I began to feel as if I were slipping into a pit. Vesta patted my hand and forced her house key on me, and I set off two streets away to her cottage, where I fit in another two-hour kip. I wondered how long it was possible to live like this.

I'd set the alarm on my phone but didn't need it, because Michael rang. I could wait no longer and had left him a voice message just before I drifted off, trying to sound casual yet concerned without giving away any details. Apparently, I'd come across as hopelessly befuddled.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice strained. “What's happened? What ‘incident'?”

Here's the one person I really wanted to tell, because Michael would understand. The two of us had happened upon a dead body not all that many months ago—and he knew how the images and the unnerving sense of doom lingered after the event. I told him everything, ending with “The police, Michael. You know what that means.” That word: murder. “But who could've done that? How did he die?”

“God, Julia, get out of there. Come to my flat.”

I shook my head as if he could see me. “I'll stay busy. The church hall will be full of Christmas Market vendors this evening—I can't duck out of that.”

“Have you told Rupert?”

“No, not yet. Beryl's going down to Cornwall tomorrow, so she will be there when Bianca has her baby. I don't want to distract them from that. I'll ring Dad in a day or two.”

“You shouldn't be alone.”

A lovely warm glow wrapped my heart at his words—here I was surrounded by people, but I knew what he meant. “Well, perhaps,” I said, trying not to sound pathetic, “after your meeting tomorrow, you know, if you've any spare time, you might come round?”

“I'll be there.”

I splashed water on my face and looked at myself in the mirror above Vesta's bathroom sink. I had thought Sheila's eyes puffy, but it looked as if I'd stuck marshmallows under mine. Ah well, nothing that a mug of cocoa and a good night's sleep wouldn't sort out—when I could get to it. I ran my damp fingers through my hair for a quick repair.

I circled round to the other end of the high street before returning to the TIC, because my own home, Pipit Cottage, called to me—I would just check on how the work progressed. The place looked deserted. I pulled a corner of the plastic sheeting off the door and saw the kitchen wall stripped of plaster down to its ancient oak posts. It had been weeks since I moved out. Where were the workers? Had they done nothing? My heart sank. Before long, I would be a permanent resident of Hoggin Hall. I thought of Michael's offer. What held me back from accepting? I would examine my reluctance more carefully later, when I could concentrate. I dragged myself further down the high street until I reached the village green and plopped down on a bench.

I pulled my collar up round my neck and closed my eyes—surely the cold would keep me awake. But in only a few seconds my chin fell to my chest. I took a sharp breath and sat up—no good for the TIC manager to be found slumped on a bench, unconscious.

I heard a low
weee
and
tak tak
off to my right. I saw him feeding on the ground beneath a beech about twenty feet away—a medium-sized bird with a white belly, black head, and the chestnut on its shoulders and breast standing out against the gray day. A brambling. I smiled and dug in my bag, retrieving my worn copy of
The Observer's Book of British Birds,
which I'd bought for a pound at a church stall when I was twelve. I knew just which page to find him on, and it gave me comfort to read the familiar words that I could've recited by heart: “The plumage, though not so bright in the winter as in summer, is rather smart.”

“Taking the afternoon off, are you?” a voice behind me said.

“Gavin!” I twisted round to see him.

Gavin Lecky had been knocked on the head by a murderer a few months ago. He'd needed surgery for his concussion, but now he looked just as he always had—black leather jacket, stubbly beard, hovering kestrel earring, close-clipped black hair. Only the three-inch white scar behind his ear was new.

He sat, and I gave him a peck on the cheek. I'd visited him in hospital once or twice, but had been chased away by his girlfriend, who had seemed happy to have Gavin confined to bed for a while instead of running after birds all over Britain. Gavin, a twitcher, would go to almost any lengths to add a rare sighting to his list. But his girlfriend had nothing to fear from me—Gavin's and my one-afternoon stand two years ago was a thing of the past.

“How are you?” I asked. “All healed? Back to twitching?”

He smiled—an uncharacteristic look for Gavin, who preferred the tough-guy attitude. “I'm all right. It takes more than a bash on the head to stop Gavin Lecky.”

“And your girl?”

Gavin's smile turned sheepish. “Yeah, right, well. The day they let me out of hospital, she wanted to take me to her flat to recuperate. But I'd heard about a great grey shrike at Minsmere. They don't often show up in midsummer—I had to go. She couldn't understand and so…”

Enough said. “You need a girlfriend who's a twitcher herself—or at least a birder.”

“And you?” he asked, stretching his black boots out before him. “Everything all right here in the village? You still with Sedgwick?”

“Yes.” Not in the literal sense of the word—not often enough, at least. I skipped over news of the estate and Michael's and my forced separation and instead nodded to my chestnut-breasted friend below the beech. “Look now, he's early for winter,” I said.

Gavin scanned the ground and then looked at me. “Who's that, then?”

I frowned. “It's a brambling. There—can't you see him?” At that moment, the bird flew off.

Gavin closed his eyes tight, opened them wide, blinked rapidly, and stared at the empty ground. “Yeah, sure, of course.”

I watched him until he felt my gaze; he looked at me and glanced away.

“Gavin, what's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong—it's only a brambling.” He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets. “I'm having a bit of a problem, that's all.”

I looked from him to the empty ground where the bird had been and gasped. “You can't see.”

He leapt off the bench. “Of course I can
see,
Julia. It's just my eyes, because of the…” He sat down again and gestured to the scar on his scalp. “Close up I'm fine, but far off, things aren't right. Probably only temporary, the doctor said.”

This had to be a twitcher's worst nightmare—not being able to see the only object of his affection. “Gavin, how awful for you,” I said, my eyes welling with tears of exhaustion and sympathy.

Gavin brushed off my emotions with a scoffing sound. “The doctor said it would get better, most likely—only she didn't say when. She's a looker, my doc,” he said with a grin. “Don't mind it when she gets up close for an exam.”

False bravado, poor sausage.

“But your list, going out for birds, what will you do?”

He sat up, all humor gone. “You can't tell anyone, Julia—swear to me you won't. I've told no one—if it got out, there would be questions. You don't know what they're like, twitchers. They'd like nothing better than to tear me apart.”

I shook my head. “No, certainly not, I won't breathe a word.”

“I miss it,” he muttered. “It's only that I don't want to be out there trying to see a bird and make a fool of myself. Of course, it would be different,” he said in a speculative tone, “if I had someone with me who could keep quiet about my problem and be my eyes. I could still get out and about.”

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that why you're here?”

“You saved me, Julia,” he said with an offended air. “I only came to say thanks.”

I knew what he came for, and yet I couldn't say no. “Well,” I said, “if you ever want me to go along, just say the word. I could point out a bird for you to look at—surely that would count.”

Gavin grinned. “I suppose that would be all right,” he said. “But I'd really have to lay eyes on the bird—not just take your word for it.”

“Right. And you're not dragging me off to the ends of the earth,” I said.

Gavin nodded. And so, after striking this agreement, he walked me back to the TIC. I left him on the high street—he had driven to the village, swearing to me that he could see the road just fine. “Cars are bigger than birds, Julia.” I was so tired that seemed to make sense.