Chapter 11: Birds and Gossip

Friday

In the morning, Martin stepped out to the stone terrace and found the wooden owl toppled from the rooftop perch where he had fastened it. It was covered with bird excrement. He stared at it in disgust as Pauline walked up the hill to start her work day.

"Never seen a bird do something like that before," she remarked, in awe. "Looks like Gullzilla is marking your house as his territory, Doc."

Martin snorted in derision. "Any other brilliant ideas to get rid of it?"

"I heard they don't like the colour red. You could splash paint around here, or hang up some of your old ties."

"Hm! I'm off to make a house call." Martin strode off to put his medical bag in the Lexus as Pauline got out the hose to rinse off the fake owl.

He drove to the outskirts of the village and parked at a small cottage set on a steep hillside, mildly surprised to see Aunt Joan's pick-up truck already there. "Hello?" he called, pushing the front door open. "Mrs. Potter?"

He found the two elderly women in the kitchen enjoying some tea and biscuits. "Morning, Auntie Joan. Mrs. Potter. How is your metatarsal fracture?"

"It aches when I put any weight on it," Mrs. Potter said, as he bent to examine her foot.

"Hm. Still swollen. You've been keeping it elevated? Well, you should stay off it as much as possible another three weeks. Remember to use a cane if you must move around. Aunt Joan, how is your ankle coming along?"

"It's fine Marty, feeling better since I last saw you."

"I appreciate you coming out to see me, Dr. Ellingham," said Mrs. Potter. "Heard anything from Louisa lately?"

"Er, not yet. She said she'll call me when she's coming back."

Mrs. Potter nodded and reached up to tuck some stray hairs back into her grey bun. "You'll stay for a cuppa?"

Martin grunted his affirmative. He sat at the table as Mrs. Potter poured him a cup but he waved away her offer of biscuits. "I, um… understand you're knowledgeable about birds?"

"Isabelle is a recognized expert on English bird life," Aunt Joan said, as the lady in question nodded with pride. "We're very lucky to have her here in the village."

"Ornithology happens to be my avocation," Mrs. Potter said. "Birds are marvellous creatures. They bring beauty into the world."

"It's just that I have… um, something of a problem with a gull. It's decided it lives at my house. Damn nuisance."

"Oh, Marty," Aunt Joan said. "You're a grown man. Can't you figure out how to handle how to handle a mere bird?"

"It's a very aggressive bird," Martin protested.

"Yes, they can be," Mrs. Potter agreed. "They can snatch ice creams out of the hands of tourists on the Platt and they've been known to draw blood." Her gravely voice took on a lecturing tone. "It's likely a herring gull, species Larus Argentatus, known as a goelann in Cornish, very common in these parts. You're lucky it's not nesting season. In any case, you mustn't harm it, they're a protected species."

"Hm. So I've been told. My receptionist put a false owl on display. Didn't work."

"The herring gull is too intelligent to fall for that. You can always hire a falcon," she said.

"What?"

"There's a falconer lives over in Delabole. You can hire him to deploy a raptor in your garden to scare the gull away. I believe he has a peregrine falcon and several other species of raptors. I don't imagine it would be cheap to get him though and bringing in a raptor isn't always effective."

"I've got a vicious bird squatting in my garden, I'm not going to pay for another vicious bird to move in as well!" Martin was growing impatient with the old woman's droning. "What else is effective?"

"Having a dog about could scare it away, not that you'd agree to that. Or you could put spikes on the roof, anywhere a gull might perch," Aunt Joan suggested. "Really, it's not difficult to figure out, Marty."

"Yes, and put some shiny, reflective tape up there too," Mrs. Potter said. "Confuses the birds about where they can land safely."

Martin grunted and sipped his tea. "Erm, I'll consider it. Do either of you know anything about… um, the Wenns?"

"Marty, it's not like you to show an interest in local gossip, is it," Aunt Joan said. "Does this have anything to do with Michael Wenn being poisoned?"

"You know I can't discuss that. It's patient confidentiality. I'm just curious about the… er, previous Mrs. Wenn."

"Just curious, eh?" Joan obviously didn't buy that. "Well, the previous Mrs. Wenn was Rachel Brading, from Port Gaverne originally. Lovely lady, a real Cornish beauty, and a champion rider as well. She was Lady Susan's cousin. When she married into the Wenn family a few years ago everyone thought it was a brilliant match."

"They used to give wonderful parties over at Wenn Hall when she was the lady of the house," Mrs. Potter said. "She let me lead bird watching tours on the grounds. Once we saw a nesting pair of desert wheatears there, Oenanthe deserti, quite rare in these parts. It was very exciting."

"So what happened to her?" Martin was eager to stop Mrs. Potter from going off on a tangent about birds again.

"For some reason she decided to go sailing alone at night, and a sudden squall blew in," Aunt Joan said. "Her boat must have sank somewhere out there, but no trace of it was ever found. Surprising, because she was an excellent sailor."

Mrs. Potter nodded. "That was just about a year ago. A real tragedy."

"Well, Michael Wenn was supposedly devastated. He went abroad for months, not a word from him, then suddenly he reappears just a fortnight ago with this new, much younger wife," said Aunt Joan.

"I hear she's quite a disappointment. She's got nothing on Rachel," Mrs. Potter added.

"So this Rachel was never declared dead," Martin said.

"No, that's what so odd about him remarrying so soon," Aunt Joan said. "No body was found, and not nearly enough time had passed for her to be legally declared dead. But he kept insisting he knew in his heart she was gone."

"And…er, one other thing. I know you do a bit of gardening Aunt Joan, and Mrs. Potter you're knowledgeable about nature… I was wondering if either of you were familiar with oleander."

"What about it?" Joan was very curious herself now.

"Have you ever heard of anyone ingesting it, possibly in some misguided attempt at a natural remedy, like people still sometimes do with belladonna?"

"All I know is the birds have enough sense to not eat it," said Mrs. Potter.

"I've never heard of that," Aunt Joan said. "You probably know more about that than we would. Perhaps you should seek out someone who knows about folk remedies."

"There's Old Andy that lives out on the moor. People sometimes go to him for herbal teas and remedies. Bit of an eccentric, makes art works out of scrap metal, tinkers with bikes and such too," said Mrs. Potter.

"Don't you remember, it's been over a year since Andy passed on," Aunt Joan reminded her. "There's always Sally Tishell. Chemists are often familiar with alternative remedies and she would know if anyone in the village had requested them."

"Such a shame about Rachel Wenn," Mrs. Potter mused. "She sometimes came with us on our birding walks. We saw a grey penduline tit once, very unusual in these parts. Of course I don't get out much any more. It broke my heart that I missed seeing the choughs that were nesting on the cliffs recently. That's a real Cornish bird, the chough, species Pyrrhocorax pyrrhocorax, but sadly rare here now due to loss of its specialized habitat. Col. Spencer told me they flew back to western Germany so I never got to see them."

Martin looked up in surprise at her comment. Aunt Joan caught his eye behind Mrs. Potter's back, frowned, and shook her head. "I should be off now," she said, picking up her cane. "Marty, do you think you could help me outside?"

"Er, yes." Martin was eager to be going himself now.

They bid goodbye and went outside to their vehicles. "Mrs. Potter is unaware of, um, what happened to the choughs?" Martin asked.

"The Colonel thought it best if she didn't find out. She only knows what visitors tell her, and we've all agreed there's no need to upset her at her age," Aunt Joan said. "So you're intrigued by the local goings-on after all, with the Wenns I mean."

"Well, it's a medical mystery, that's the extent of my interest." Privately Martin had to admit to himself, it was a good way to take his mind off other things in his life.

To be continued…