The Rhyme of the Magpie Read online

  “Did you talk with him?” she asked, showing again an uncanny ability to find my weak spot.

  “He’s quite busy—all wrapped up in a project. And he has his new assistant. Everything, really, is…under control.” Which meant, of course, there was something that needed controlling. “By the way”—I glanced back into the shop and lowered my voice—“do you like opera?”

  —

  I walked up from the rail station in Cambridge alongside the large green commons called Parker’s Piece amid a sea of students, mothers with pushchairs, and clusters of tourists who paused occasionally and bent heads over their maps. I stopped dead when I noticed several magpies strutting about on the well-manicured grass.

  “One, two, three, four, five,” I counted under my breath. “Five for silver.” Two more came in. “Six, seven—seven for a secret…” Three flew off. I started again. “One for sorrow, two for joy…” Five landed nearby and I hurried my counting, but one left and two more arrived before I could finish. “Hold still, you stupid birds!” I shouted to them. The birds rose as one while the crowd around me parted. I put my head down and continued on my way.

  My destination was the Guildhall, a depressingly characterless 1930s structure set amid a city of far older and more elegant buildings. I walked up one set of stairs and approached the half-open door at the end of the hall.

  It was a modest office—desk, table, and chairs that were neither new nor old enough to be antiques. A small, worn leather sofa occupied one corner. Seated at his desk was Giles Fenwith—Fenny, as Bee and I always called him. He was once a teaching fellow—along with Dad—at Clare College at Cambridge, but now made do as a private tutor for students hoping to make it into a decent university. He was also once Beryl’s husband.

  Another man towered over the desk, saying, “You didn’t admit to it, Giles? Tell me you have more fortitude than that.” My movement must’ve caught his eye, because he looked up and said, “Yes?” A reserved smile appeared. “Julia, how lovely to see you again.”

  Dr. Peter Drabwell—still a fellow at Clare College. He had that hunched-over look that many tall men have. His brow overhung his eyes, his head was squarish, and his arms seemed too long for his frame. I’d seen him occasionally over the years, and reacted the same way each time: with a nervous giggle. I couldn’t help it—Bianca and I had watched far too many Boris Karloff films when we were growing up. “Hello, Dr. Drabwell, how are you?”

  “Overwhelmed with the responsibility of molding tender young minds into useful adults, as always.” He walked to the door in two strides, saying over his shoulder, “We’re not finished yet, Giles. You need to remember that. We’ll settle on the details later.” He took my hand briefly. “My best to your father and his new bride.”

  He turned and left before I could reply. But never mind. Across the room, Giles Fenwith rose from his desk chair as if released from a spell. “Julia, my dear.”

  “Hello, Fenny.” I gave him a big hug and he returned it, and then we admired each other. He wasn’t tall, and he’d grown a bit thick around the middle over the years, but he was still a fine-looking man with curly, silver-and-brown hair and a trimmed, wiry beard to match. His smile was still infectious. He’d been like an uncle to us, and he and Dad had stayed friends through all the ups and downs of life. The downs were mostly on Fenny’s side, sad to say.

  “This is a wonderful surprise,” Fenny said, pulling me around the worktable to the sofa. “What brings you to me?”

  “I know it’s been ages. I just thought that I’d stop by.” I glanced back at the door. “I hope I didn’t interrupt anything.”

  Fenny shook his head. “Peter was asking about a former student. It’s nothing. You’re looking beautiful as always—have you cut your hair?”

  My hand went up to defend my neck in what had become an automatic response. “Well, I thought I’d try something new.” To business. “Have you seen Dad lately?”

  Fenny had moved behind his desk to switch the kettle on and paused for a moment with his back to me. He took two mugs off a shelf and dropped in tea bags.

  “Not long ago. I stood him a pint at The Eagle—you know, to congratulate him.”

  When he turned, he wouldn’t meet my eye, and I was surprised that Fenny would be affected by Dad and Beryl. Close to thirty years had gone by since Fenny and Beryl had divorced, and I hadn’t thought what she did now would matter.

  They had split up when I was about ten. Stephen, the Fenwiths’ only child, Bianca, and I—they called us the gang of three—had watched the adults in crisis with helpless fear. They told us little. Fenny moved out of their house, and Beryl could often be found in our kitchen with Mum, both of them alternating between tears and anger over countless cups of tea. No one likes to see mums upset, and so one day, we baked rock cakes to cheer them up. They were dreadful—more rock than cake. We had made a mess of Beryl’s kitchen, and the mums cried even more, but they hugged us and gave us cocoa, so it all seemed to work out.

  After that, Fenny disappeared from our lives for a few years, and Beryl took a post as office manager for the headmaster at a local independent school, and, as I recalled, dated two or three men seriously.

  It wasn’t until I was almost twenty that Bianca told me the reason for his departure—Fenny had been having affairs with two women in other colleges. At the same time. Both women were married to high-powered men, one a barrister and the other a member of Parliament; both wielded influence at the university. The resulting uproar meant that Fenny quit Cambridge and became a lowly private tutor to thickheaded teenagers; in addition to losing his life’s work, he also lost his wife and his son. It was only by my dad’s lobbying the powers-that-be for clemency that Fenny ended up with a job of any kind in the city. I was shocked at the true story, but by then, the highly charged emotional atmosphere surrounding Beryl and Fenny had long faded away, and their relationship was civil.

  Fenny handed me my tea and sat in a chair. He looked down into his mug and asked, “Did you go to the wedding?”

  When Dad and Beryl had told me they were getting married, I had reacted with disbelief, horror, and fury—in that order. I stormed out of our house and Cambridge and flew to Bee’s to hide out—that was how she described it. Within three weeks, I had found and secured the job in Smeaton. I’d got the post without a face-to-face interview, but I’d like to believe that it was on the strength of my organizational experience and good ideas, and not because Linus knew who my father was. And so, newly employed, I had effectively done a bunk on my old life.

  Now, at Fenny’s question, a mix of emotions vied for top billing. Anger and sadness, as usual, but I also had a strange impulse to defend both my dad and Beryl for their actions. My own outrage was justified, but I didn’t want anyone else judging Rupert.

  “No, I couldn’t be there, as it turned out. I was visiting Bianca in Cornwall at the time, and…well, they wanted to keep it a small affair.” I drank down my tea and got to the point. “So, you don’t know what Dad’s up to right now?”

  A tiny smile crept across Fenny’s face and then faded. I thought it was a sad smile. “How could I know more than his most able personal assistant?”

  I shook my head. “That isn’t me—not any longer. I’ve had the most incredible opportunity, you see, to run the tourism office for the entire Fotheringill estate, and I moved to Smeaton-under-Lyme. The other side of Bury.”

  The smile returned, followed by a laugh. “Well, that’s grand. Really, I’m so happy for you—I know you loved working for your dad, but it’ll be good for you, don’t you think? Yes, you’re well and truly away now, aren’t you?”

  It was the most positive reaction I’d had from anyone to my transformation. I should’ve been pleased, but Fenny made it sound as if I had saved myself from some terrible fate in the nick of time, and so I felt the need to mount a defense, claim some piece of my former life. I grabbed at the first thing that came to mind.

  “Of course, I still help out. I’m
continuing to…go through all his post. I keep some of the correspondence, you know, so he doesn’t have to deal with it all. He’s had a letter recently that he’s been concerned about, and I’m looking into it.” I patted my bag as if it held an important missive. I had no idea what sort of a letter it was that Michael mentioned, and you’d think this sudden penchant for lying would worry me, but I seemed to be slipping into the role with ease. Reluctantly, I added a bit of truth. “Dad does have a new assistant—Michael Sedgwick.”

  Fenny narrowed his eyes. “I thought Rupert took care of his own correspondence.”

  “Well, we don’t want any crazies getting through—you know how nice Dad is to everyone.”

  Fenny set his mug down carefully and stared at his shoes. “Who is this Sedgwick?”

  I shrugged. “I know nothing about him. Except that he’s got a steep learning curve ahead of him—he knows little about birds. Never been in television. I can’t imagine why Dad hired him.”

  “I hope Rupert knew what he was doing—taking someone on who has no experience. I hope he conducted a thorough background search.”

  “Dad must’ve had his reasons.” But what were they? “And so, that’s the only time you’ve spoken with him?”

  “I’m afraid we haven’t seen much of each other lately.”

  My heart sank at the realization Fenny was not my ace in the hole after all. I thought he and Dad kept in closer touch and he might even have heard from him about this trip away. But now that I thought about it, I don’t think I’d seen him since Mum’s funeral, nine months ago.

  Fenny took up his mug and sat back. “Now, how is your sister?”

  We entered the chatty portion of the visit, and I kept up as best as my dragging heart would let me. I told him that Bee was expecting, and I asked after his son, Stephen.

  “I’d say you’re more up-to-date than I am,” Fenny said. True, Stephen and I were still good friends; although he lived in London, we were certainly closer than the Fenwiths’ father-son relationship. I’m not sure Stephen ever forgave his dad for breaking up the family, and Fenny never quite grasped Stephen’s declaration, at age fifteen, that he was gay. They were, at best, on polite terms.

  —

  I left Fenny, turning out of the Guildhall and toward the outdoor market seeking distraction. Mindlessly, I wandered the stalls and bought olives, bread, and cheese, examined a rack of leather bags, and tapped at a string of crystals to set them swaying. I found myself eyeing a fine-looking rhubarb crumble at the bakery stall and thought I’d better eat lunch.

  After lunch, my packages multiplied until at last I stood with hands full in front of H&M, contemplating the summer frocks on display and thinking I might ring my friend Caroline to see if she’d like to meet for coffee. Then something caught my eye.

  Dad had taught me how important it was to see without directly looking. “Your eyes may be staring straight on, Jools,” he always said, “but be aware of what’s going on to either side—your peripheral vision will help you see birds without ever turning your head.”

  Now, out of the corner of my eye, I spied a figure a few doors down, looking not into a window as shoppers do, but toward me. I caught my breath and turned my head. Michael was gone, but I had recognized that mop of black hair, and I set after him.

  Dodging the slowest walkers on earth, and excusing myself every time I knocked someone with my baguette, I made it to the corner, but too late—he was nowhere to be seen. I tried the birdwatching technique again, and stood staring, unseeing, into a window full of athletic gear, waiting for him to show himself and thinking up a few choice words I’d give him. Nothing.

  On the way home, the shopping bags took up their own seat on the train, but the country bus had no extra room, and so I sat clutching them and hoping the container of olives wouldn’t leak. Only when I got off the bus in Smeaton did it occur to me that I hadn’t stopped to see Beryl while in Cambridge. Should I have? What was the proper etiquette in this case? I didn’t know.

  Chapter 9

  Hoggin Hall, a grand brick mansion, had been standing for close on to three and a half centuries—rebuilt a hundred years after Henry VIII’s troops demolished the original dwelling, which had been built by an abbot in the twelfth century. The current house sat heavily in the landscape, weighed down with artwork, a 130-foot-long Georgian dining set, and five Italian marble fireplaces. Linus wanted to share his family’s history—during regularly scheduled visiting hours. In order to do so, a group of volunteers would be trained and stationed throughout the Hall to impart to tourists fascinating Fotheringill details, such as the significance of the canopied bed purported to have been slept in by Queen Charlotte in…oh God, what year was that?

  I sat hunched over my work in the back of the TIC, having arrived an hour early to finish the booklet that I would hand out that afternoon during the first volunteer training session. The meeting would include a tour of the Hall by Linus himself, and I believe that’s why so many of the pensioners in the village signed on to the project. As volunteers, they would have access to never-before-seen nooks and crannies of the Fotheringill family home.

  My good intentions had faded quickly as I’d spent the first half hour of the morning searching the Internet for information about Kenneth Kersey.

  The first item had appeared online in local papers yesterday, the day after we found him by the Little Ouse. It was posted soon after the police report went in, no doubt, and carried scant details: a body had been found along the river, foul play suspected. This morning, with the confirmed identification that the deceased was the communications director for Power to the People, the wind-farm company, one of the tabloids had picked up the story and altered it to their own devices: “Fowl Play Suspected in Death.” I rolled my eyes—really, did they not know that “fowl” had to do with chickens and geese, not wild birds that might be disturbed by a wind farm?

  In-depth personal details on the man were missing—or perhaps he had no depth. Divorced, wife living in Aberdeen, married daughter taught at an English school in Paris. What read as a terse comment from Oscar Woodcock, managing director of Power to the People, stated that Mr. Kersey’s particular talents would be missed. No special interests, no one to say good or bad about him. And so why, then, was he killed?

  I thought about that far too long, and rushed through the second half hour to finish up the booklets and get them printed. Linus might want to take a look at the final draft when he arrived at ten—I glanced at the wall clock—in fifteen minutes. We were due to call in at Nuala’s Tea Room this morning, to firm up details with her about opening a satellite café at Hoggin Hall that would meet the needs of all those parched visitors. I felt a spark of pride as I realized the tourist trade was picking up.

  Before I could hit “print,” the door opened, and I called, “I was about to put the kettle on, Vesta.”

  “That’s grand,” Michael said. “I could do with a cuppa.”

  My chair screeched as I stood abruptly and marched up to him, pointing an accusatory finger in his face. “You were following me yesterday—spying. Why?”

  Michael responded with an impassive look. “Why didn’t you tell me you were off to see Giles Fenwith?”

  I gasped at his knowledge. “That’s none of your business.”

  “It is my business. Did you forget we’re working together?” Michael stuck his hands in his jacket pockets, and I could see his body tense, as if he expected a blow. “Who was the other fellow—the tall one, looked a bit like Frankenstein?”

  I snorted as I tried to swallow a laugh. “Dr. Peter Drabwell. Still at the university.” I crossed my arms. “You got awfully close to see all that.”

  “Has Rupert been in touch with them?”

  “Am I in the dock?” I asked hotly, but tamped down my irritation. “No. I wish he’d ring.” But of course, if he did, he wouldn’t ring me. I had pushed him away enough times that perhaps he had at last decided to stay away.

  Michael relaxed
and his voice softened. “We need to talk with him about Kersey. Surely he knows by now.”

  “Do you think he saw who did it? Does it have something to do with Oscar Woodcock—with Power to the People? Is the murderer after him? Is he all right? Where’s he hiding?” With each question my voice rose higher as panic threatened to choke me, but the tinkling of the bell startled me into silence.

  Lord Fotheringill held the door for Vesta and wheeled his bicycle in after.

  “Thank you, your Lordship,” she said, and looked from Michael to me. “Good morning.”

  Linus removed his helmet and trouser clip. “Good morning, Julia—I’m a bit early. I see we have our first visitor of the day.” He nodded at Michael. “Welcome to Smeaton-under-Lyme.”

  The panic doubled as I tried to breathe normally and sort out the racket in my brain. I had to make introductions, but I didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t let Michael assume the persona of a casual tourist to the village—he might slip away, and at the moment, he was my closest link to Dad. But neither could I introduce him as Rupert Lanchester’s assistant—that would only lead to questions and a conversation with Linus that I could not have now.

  Clutching at what seemed my only way out, I put my hand on Michael’s arm and left it there, saying, “Linus, I’d like you to meet my…friend Michael Sedgwick. Michael, the Earl Fotheringill.”

  “Lovely to see you again, Michael,” Vesta said, cutting her eyes at me as she swept past us.

  A look of disappointment briefly clouded Linus’s face. For a moment, he seemed to size up both this younger suitor and his own dwindling prospects. I felt despicable for deceiving him this way, but it was all I could think of. I felt worse when Linus showed himself to be a gracious and generous man.

  “Michael, I’m happy to meet you.”

  Michael stuck out his hand. “Sir, it’s an honor. Julia can’t stop talking about what a privilege it is to work for you here on the estate.”

  All right, don’t push it.

  “Julia’s talents are just what the estate has needed—someone detail-oriented to attend to practicalities,” Linus said, beaming.