by Lea Wait
I shook my head. “So Mary Stuart and four other Marys went to France. Weird. You’d enter a room and ask for Mary—and five girls would answer!”
“Precisely. Which is why they all had informal names, too. Mary of Scotland was, of course, the Mary or Marie. Mary Fleming was nicknamed La Flamina. Mary Beaton was called Beaton, and Mary Seton was called Seton. Mary Livingston was known as Lusty, because she was strong and athletic. All four grew up with Mary Stuart. After Mary’s husband died they all went back to Scotland with her. Mary Livingston, Mary Beaton, and Mary Fleming all married men loyal to Mary Stuart.”
“What about the fourth Mary?”
“Mary Seton was the closest of the four to Mary Stuart. After they returned to Scotland she was put in charge of the queen’s household, and she stayed with the queen, and even went into captivity with her.”
“Never married?”
“She was asked, so history says, but she chose to remain single. And she may be the connection with Mary Clough’s needlepoint.” Ruth looked very pleased with herself. But I still didn’t get it.
“Mary Seton? How?”
“As I said, she went into captivity with Mary Stuart. She arranged Mary’s hair and wigs, did needlepoint with her, and looked after her wardrobe. But after fifteen years she became ill. Her family, and Mary Stuart herself, advised her to leave England and its drafty castles and go somewhere more comfortable, and better for her lungs.”
“And so she left?”
“She did.” Ruth nodded. “In 1583 she returned to France, and went to live at Saint-Pierre-les-Dames at Reims—the same abbey she’d visited as a child, where Mary Stuart’s aunt was the abbess. Mary Seton lived there for the rest of her life.”
I was waiting for the needlepoint connection. “And?”
“Mary Stuart was known to be generous with her friends and staff. Even in the hectic days before she was executed she made provisions for her servants, her friends, and her relatives. She had little money, but she left instructions as to which of her needlepoint pieces should be given to each person. Mary Seton was a close friend. I’m wondering if that note in French was from Mary Stuart . . . who would have called herself Marie in French . . . to Mary Seton. And if it accompanied a piece of needlepoint she stitched as a remembrance for Mary Seton to take with her to France.”
“When Nicole translated the note she did say it looked as though it was addressed to someone whose name began with an S,” I said, remembering. “So, okay, the needlepoint could have been done by Mary, Queen of Scots, and taken to France by Mary Seton. But that still doesn’t connect with Marie Antoinette!”
“No. But if the abbey of Saint-Pierre-les-Dames had a piece of needlework stitched by a queen, I would think they would value it highly and preserve it,” said Ruth. “And there was a connection between Marie Antoinette and the abbey. Marie Antoinette’s lawyer, who defended her at the trial where she was condemned to death, was Guillaume Alexandre Tronson. He was from Reims.”
“And obviously closely connected to the court of Marie Antoinette,” I said.
“Exactly. At that time the archbishop of Reims was Alexandre-Angélique de Talleyrand-Périgord. We remember him just as Talleyrand. He left France during their revolution and spent time in the United States. In 1794 he even visited Maine. Later, of course, he went back to France. But he knew Tronson du Coudray. By the time of the French Revolution the abbey where Mary Seton had lived was gone, and its treasures had been incorporated into those of the cathedral at Reims. Given the destruction that took place during the French Revolution, wouldn’t it have been reasonable for the archbishop at the cathedral, Talleyrand, to entrust the church’s treasures to someone leaving the country? Perhaps he was protecting the church’s assets. Or perhaps he gave them away as bribes.”
“And you’re suggesting that Mary Clough’s needlepoint might be one of those treasures removed from the cathedral by Talleyrand.”
“And perhaps given to du Coudray, and passed on to Captain Clough,” Ruth continued.
“Wow,” I said. “I’m going to need you to write that all down—the names and the dates especially.”
“I’ve already done that,” said Ruth, handing me a sheet of paper. “Now all we have to do is connect the Clough family of Haven Harbor to Talleyrand or du Coudray. James Swan, the Boston investor who connected Captain Clough to royalists in France, knew Talleyrand. And in 1794 Talleyrand visited Henry Knox, in Rockland, and also went to Gardiner and Augusta, here in Maine, so he’s the likeliest to have visited Haven Harbor. Du Coudray died in Africa. He never made it to the states.”
“The papers in Mary’s house might have clues,” I said. “I need to talk to her.”
“And, of course,” Ruth added, “we still don’t know where that needlepoint is. I heard Lenore’s jewelry was found in the room where that poor girl who drowned was staying.”
Word had gotten around town quickly.
“Yes,” I confirmed.
“But not the needlepoint?”
“No. Not as far as I’ve heard,” I answered. “And if Uma had it, I don’t think she would have discarded it. She’d have left Haven Harbor immediately and gone back to Boston. She wouldn’t have stayed around to go lobstering with Arvin Fraser.” Or die in Haven Harbor, I added to myself.
“I hope the police are talking to Arvin,” Ruth said. “He may have been the last person to see her alive. He might know her plans. Or what she’d already done.”
I nodded. “I’m sure they’ll talk to him. The question is, what will they find out?”
Chapter 31
When I am dead
And laid in Grave
And all my flesh decayd
When this you see
Pray think on me
A poor young harmless maid.
—Stitched by Rachel Anderson,
ten years old, 1803
“Angie? This is Ethan. Ethan Trask.”
He didn’t have to tell me who he was. I’d recognized his voice since I was twelve and he was sixteen. Not that I wanted him to know that.
“Yes?”
“Any chance you’d have time to talk? I have loose ends that need to be tied up. I thought maybe you could help.”
Time to talk to Ethan? Just the rest of my life. “Sure, Ethan. Shall I come down to the police station?”
Pete was the cop who listened to me. For Ethan to call was suspiciously different.
“Truth is, this place is a little crazy now. Media, you know. Unless you want to talk to the world about how you found Uma Patel’s body.”
I shuddered. “No, thanks.”
“Then what about meeting at Harbor Haunts for a burger? It’s close to lunch time, and I need to get out of this office.”
“I can be there in fifteen minutes,” I answered.
“See you there.”
I’d just gotten home from talking with Ruth. My head was full of English and French history. But it didn’t take me long to check the mirror in the front hall. A comb and a lipstick would make a major difference in how the world saw me.
I even changed my T-shirt. I might not be royalty, like those Marys, but I knew how to please my Haven Harbor public.
Dressing up more than putting on lipstick and a new T-shirt for lunch at the Harbor Haunts would have felt odd.
I was standing outside the door of the café in sixteen minutes. I wasn’t even out of breath. Much.
Ethan rounded the corner from the street where, several blocks away, the Haven Harbor Police Station had stood for as long as I remembered. We were a small town, with a small police presence. But Pete Lambert and the others who worked there always made space for Ethan when he was working a murder investigation in the Harbor. Which recently had been all too often.
He looked good. Over six feet tall. A light tan, which in Maine meant he spent some, but not all, of his time outside. The same amount of time outside without sunblock in Arizona would have resulted in sunburn or permanent charring. And those b
lue eyes . . . Not that the rest of him wasn’t pretty darn good. But those eyes were what always got to me.
Lucky wife. I’d never met her, but if Ethan had chosen her, she must be pretty special. I wondered when her unit was coming home. But I didn’t ask.
“I’m starving. Hope you don’t mind discussing bodies while we eat,” he said, opening the Harbor Haunts door for me.
“No problem,” I answered. Not if he was on the opposite side of the table.
We were early enough to find a corner table with a view of Main Street. Like all cops, Ethan sat with his back to the wall, facing the door. I suspected he even did that when he went out for dinner with his wife and daughter.
We each ordered cheeseburgers; mine rare, his well done.
So—he liked charred meat. He wasn’t perfect.
Sweet potato fries for me; regular fries for him. “And iced coffee,” he added. I decided not to have the beer I’d been thinking about. “Iced tea,” I said. I’d have a beer later.
“Sorry to bother you,” Ethan said. “But you’ve been talking to people around town about that missing embroidery.”
“I still feel responsible for its disappearing.”
“While you’ve been doing that, you’ve also been talking to people who may be involved with Lenore Pendleton’s murder.”
The waitress put down our food and we both dug in. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was.
“You haven’t found out anything about the needlepoint, have you?” he asked.
“Several people were interested in it, mainly because they thought it might be valuable. Your brother, Rob, wanted to sell it, but I don’t think he would have stolen it. He’d either have convinced Mary to sell it, or tried to find other ways to make the money he was looking for.” I hesitated. “I’m not a big fan of your brother, Ethan. He’s pushing Mary a bit more than she’s comfortable with. But that’s none of my business.”
“No. It’s not,” Ethan said. “Rob does see the world a little more in black and white than he should. But he’s young. He’ll learn. I can’t believe he’d kill anyone.”
“I agree.” And I did agree. I still wasn’t Rob’s biggest fan.
“Who else besides Rob?”
“Uma Patel, you know about. She hoped it would help her get a permanent job at the Museum of Fine Arts. Arvin Fraser and Josh Winslow knew about the needlepoint and its possible value,” I said. “Cos and Jude Curran did, too.”
“Because Mary lives with them,” Ethan confirmed. “But they had no special interest in needlepoint.”
“No. A couple of art dealers from Quebec were here this week.” I hesitated. “They were interested in old needlepoint; they asked Sarah if she had any. I saw them talking to Rob and Josh and Jude. But I don’t know if they knew about this particular embroidery.”
“What are their names?” Ethan took out a small notebook.
I hesitated again. I’d never even met the couple. “Victor Nolin was the man,” I said. “Sarah Byrne would know both their names. She also has their address in Canada. They were staying at the Wild Rose Inn. I don’t know if they’re still there.”
The same place Uma had been staying. But Haven Harbor was small. The only other place in town to stay was Mrs. Chase’s bed and breakfast, and Skye West had reserved that for herself and her family for the summer, even though she was seldom there.
“Did anyone else know about it?”
I thought a moment. “My grandmother, and the Mainely Needlepointers, whom you know. And Nicole Thibodeau at the patisserie. She translated the letter with the embroidery for us.” I ran through everyone in my head. “Charlie Pendleton, Lenore’s soon-to-be-ex, was interested in her jewelry. I don’t think he knew about the needlepoint.”
“Okay. Anyone else?”
“Not that I can think of.” I took another bite of my cheeseburger. “Why all the questions? I thought you’d found Lenore Pendleton’s killer. Yesterday you sounded pretty sure Uma Patel was responsible.”
It still didn’t make sense to me that Uma’d done it, but I’d heard the evidence.
“Actually, I didn’t want to talk to you about Lenore Pendleton’s death.” Ethan lowered his voice and leaned toward me. “I wanted to talk to you about Uma Patel.”
“I don’t know much about her. I only talked with her once before . . . I found her. She seemed bright and ambitious.” She hadn’t seemed like a killer. But then, killers didn’t wear ID bracelets.
“We’ve confirmed that the necklace Uma Patel was wearing was the one that belonged to Lenore Pendleton. Glenda Pierce even found us a picture of Lenore wearing it,” said Ethan.
“And yesterday you said the rest of the missing jewelry was found in her room at the inn.”
Ethan paused. “True. But—and this isn’t public information, Angie, so don’t share it with anyone—her fingerprints weren’t on the bag the jewelry was in.”
“Whose were?”
“No one’s. The bag was clean. And two pieces of Lenore Pendleton’s jewelry were not in there.”
“Uma was wearing the sapphire necklace.”
He nodded. “So we know where that was. But an emerald ring is still missing.”
I thought about that for a moment. “So the bag of jewelry may have been planted in her room.”
“We’re considering that possibility. And we have another, even more serious situation.”
I leaned toward Ethan so I could hear him as he lowered his voice.
“The medical examiner says Uma Patel didn’t drown.”
“What?” I said, moving back. “But I saw her!” I’d seen her body. A body that had been in the North Atlantic and cast up by tides and surf onto a rocky shore wasn’t pretty. I hoped her parents hadn’t had to see her.
“You saw her on the rocks, where the surf had probably taken her. There’s no doubt she was in the water for a day, maybe two. But the ME says she was dead before she went in the water,” Ethan continued, picking up a couple of French fries and dipping them in ketchup.
“Have you talked to Arvin?” I asked. “When I saw her Friday she was looking forward to going lobstering with him.” I’d found her body on Sunday. Two days later.
“Pete and I both talked to him. He says she was fine Friday. He took her for a short turn around the harbor, hauled a couple of traps, and then left her at the town wharf.” He paused. “We’re looking to confirm that with anyone who was near the wharf that afternoon, of course.”
“Did Uma sleep at the inn Friday night?”
“Mrs. Clifford doesn’t know. She saw Uma go out Friday afternoon, and Uma didn’t come down for breakfast the next morning. But not every guest does. She assumed Uma had been out late, or was planning to have breakfast with someone else.”
“What killed her?”
“The ME found evidence she’d been hit on the head. Several times. If she were walking on the ledges and fell, she might have hit her head. All her injuries were slightly different sizes. Injuries consistent with being hit with an irregularly shaped rock.”
“The ME’s sure her body wasn’t bruised or damaged by the tide dashing it against the rocks?” Rocks along the Maine coast were often sharp and jagged.
“Believe me. I asked the same question,” said Ethan. “But he’s confident at least some of the blows—the deeper ones that killed her—couldn’t have been caused by her slipping on the rocks. She was dead when she hit the water.”
“Arvin says she was fine when she left his boat.”
“That’s what he insists. He says he has no idea how she got in the water.” Ethan paused. “And he doesn’t think she was wearing a necklace when she left the boat.” Ethan shook his head slightly. “Of course, he also doesn’t remember what she was wearing or what they talked about or whether she mentioned what she was going to do after she left his boat. But he does insist he didn’t kill her.”
So he’d been asked.
“Another thing that’s funny,” Ethan continued. “Most women carry
a purse, or backpack, a place to hold their cell phones and credit cards and . . . whatever else women carry. We haven’t found any of Uma’s belongings.”
“If she fell on the rocks—or was hit on the head near there—she would have dropped whatever she was carrying.”
“Right. But if she was on dry land to begin with, you’d think we’d have found those things. Of course, if she was on a boat or even a wharf, they might be under the water. In any case, we haven’t found them. They weren’t near her body, or on the rocks, or on Arvin’s boat—yes, we searched it—or in her room at the inn. Nowhere. No license, no money, no credit cards, no keys—to her car or to her room at the inn.”
“If someone planted Lenore’s jewelry in Uma’s room to make her look guilty, they would have needed a key,” I said, thinking it through. “Did Mrs. Clifford or any guests at the inn see anyone entering Uma’s room?”
Ethan shook his head. “Unfortunately, no. Mrs. Clifford leaves the front door of the inn open from six in the morning until ten at night so her guests don’t have to use their keys except to get into their rooms. She has no way of knowing whether guests are in the inn or not—no digital images of keys, no closed-circuit cameras.”
I wasn’t surprised. The Wild Rose wasn’t a Hilton. Mrs. Clifford hadn’t expected to need any high-tech security devices. Not until now.
“When I saw Uma Friday morning at breakfast it was about nine-thirty,” I said, thinking back. “She had a small bag with her, on the floor next to her chair. A blue canvas bag. She opened it and gave me her card.”
“That’s one of the questions I was going to ask you: whether you’d seen her with a pocketbook,” he said. “You’re right on target. Her parents said she had a blue bag she used when she was away from work. She had a leather bag for work. That one is still in her apartment in Boston. Empty. The police there checked.”