Free The Rhyme of the Magpie by Marty Wingate Page A

a conversation with her husband, and it sounded as if all three children were joining in. “Bee!” I called.
    “Sorry, Jools—must run, Paul’s cooking. Byee.”
    The cacophony that was my sister’s life went silent when she rang off. I stood in my quiet kitchen, remembering my dad’s unsent text to me: “Jools, the rhyme of the magpie.” I thought of the four magpies I’d seen in the village and the one atop the cottage at Marshy End. Dad must’ve been referring to Bianca’s pregnancy. What else could it be?

Chapter 8
    Monday—my day off. At least until June, when Lord Fotheringill’s plans for opening the TIC daily would kick in. I had plenty of time for breakfast before I set out for Cambridge midmorning, but I had used the last of the milk the night before, and there was no tea without it. After replenishing the bird food in the back garden—fat balls, seed, and a handful of sultanas for the blackbirds—I pulled on trousers and sweater, shoes and socks for a quick trip down to the shop.
    I glanced in the window of Three Bags Full, the village woollen shop. Toy ewes perched atop stacks of woven throws, cardigans, and sweaters, but what caught my eye was my own reflection. I licked my hand and tried to flatten the ski-slope side of my hair. Akash had seen worse, I was sure.
    Akash Kumar’s was a true village shop, selling just about everything from newspapers and bars of chocolate to Côtes du Rhône and ready-to-bake cannelloni. During the late-afternoon commute, traffic moved so slowly from the London road and onto the two-lane high street that a passenger was well able to get out of a car, buy something from the shop, and get back in before the car had moved more than a length or two.
    Thankfully, morning business was light, and the shop was empty except for its proprietor, who was on the phone. Akash, a tall, dark-skinned man with deep brown pools of eyes and a smattering of gray in his glossy black hair, nodded a greeting. I grabbed a small jug of milk and held it up to show him it was a brief stop. I dug in my trouser pocket and began to count coins as Akash finished his phone conversation.
    “Good morning, Julia. My son’s new job,” he said with chagrin, “has made him bold enough to advise me on my business dealings. I need to protect my investment, Daniel says, build on what I own.” Akash shook his head. “ ‘I don’t own the shop,’ I tell him. ‘Lord Fotheringill owns it.’ ”
    “Is Daniel a banker?” I asked.
    “Public relations. ‘We make you look good’—apparently that’s the company’s motto.” Akash swept my coins off the counter and into his hand. “HMS, Ltd., it’s called. I said to him, shouldn’t it be HMS
Pinafore,
but he didn’t understand. He isn’t one for musical theater.”
    Akash shifted a box of apples off the counter, picked one up, and rolled it around in his hands. “Talking of music—do you know, Julia, does Ms. Widdersham enjoy the opera?”
    Ms. Widdersham, honestly! I ran a search on conversations I’ve had with Vesta in which music was mentioned. I recalled nothing about opera. “You know, Akash, I believe she does. Opera, yes, I’m sure I’ve heard her mention how much she loves it.”
    He smiled. “They will be putting on an outdoor performance of
La Bohème
in July over near Long Melford. I thought I might ask her.”
    July? Good God, you people need to get a move on—you aren’t getting any younger. “July, what a lovely time for opera. Outdoors.”
    Akash glanced up at my hair. “Your day off, is it?”
    I’d better get out of the public’s eye,
I thought. I’d made it just out the door when I met Vesta on her way in. We stood together ill at ease, like the morning after a blind date.
    Vesta tilted her head, trying to make eye contact. “Julia, how are you?”
    “It’s all right, Vesta,” I said to head off any enquiries into my emotional state. But an image of Kersey’s body on the bank of the river flashed in my