by Connie Berry
Something about the scene struck me as wrong, but my thoughts scattered like the leaves on the ground.
“Someone call the police,” shouted the Danish woman from the crest of the rise.
The tallest of the three Englishwomen fished through a capacious handbag. “I left my mobile in the car.” The other two stood beside her, weeping.
One of the hikers rushed to the edge of the lake and vomited. The other waved his phone in the air. “No signal.”
Alex fumbled with some kind of paging device. “The coverage down here is crap.”
I raced up the bank. Glenda crouched next to her son, rocking him in her arms. The Danish woman had removed her coat and wrapped it around him.
Scrambling onto the boulder, I tried to balance while fighting off an all-too-familiar sense of vertigo. Wimpy, I know, but I’m acrophobic. I can panic on a stepstool.
“I’ve got two bars,” I shouted.
“Dial 999,” Alex shouted back.
I managed to reach an emergency operator, who radioed for an ambulance and the local police. Then I called a number I’d already programmed into my phone.
I knew it by heart anyway.
Detective Inspector Thomas Mallory of the Suffolk Constabulary.
“Tom, it’s me. I’m at Finchley Hall. There’s a body.”
Chapter Two
I stood with the rest of the tour group near the boulder. Impressions of our shoes had been taken for elimination purposes. Two police cordons had been set up, an inner one for the crime scene team and a second, wider cordon for uniformed police and detectives. Wide-angle-lensed cameras strobed the body in the lake. Anonymous figures in white hooded coveralls, shoe covers, and blue latex gloves shuttled between the lake and a white forensics van parked on the grass at the top of the rise.
The boy, Danny, his mother, Glenda, and the tour guide, Alex Devereux, had been whisked away to police headquarters in Bury St. Edmunds. A kindly policewoman had explained that when a witness is a child, the interview is filmed and conducted by someone specially trained to work with children. A good thing. He was clearly in shock.
The temperature had dropped—at least it felt colder. I pulled up my collar and slid my hands into my pockets. A picture of the body I’d discovered a month ago in Scotland flashed in my mind. Finding one body could be considered bad luck. Finding two within the space of thirty days was beginning to look like destiny.
Tom paced back and forth along the taped-off perimeter, a tall, lean figure with dark, silver-flecked hair. His face—long nose, high chiseled cheekbones—burned with an intensity I’d glimpsed but never fully seen until now. He wore the same brown waxed cotton field jacket I remembered from Scotland, but this wasn’t my Tom—the one with the quick half smile and hazel eyes that crinkled at the corners, the one whose faintly woodsy aftershave made me think of bonfires and starry nights and sent my stomach swooping. This Tom was all business, and his mind wasn’t on me but on the pale, very dead young woman in the lake.
Tom walked over and flashed us his badge. “Detective Inspector Mallory, CID. Did any of you touch the body or disturb it in any way?”
We shook our heads.
“It was clearly too late to save her,” said the Danish man, speaking for the first time in nearly unaccented English. “I am a pathologist. I recognize death when I see it.”
“Did anyone besides the tour guide know this girl? Had you seen her before today?”
We shook our heads again.
A young policeman joined us. He wore the distinctive black helmet of the British police force and a yellow mesh vest over a black uniform.
“I’ve asked Constable Wheeler to escort you to the house,” Tom said. “I’ll need to speak to each of you individually. We’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”
I’d turned to follow the group when Tom stopped me. “Kate, stay for a moment.” He squeezed my hand. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine—or I will be. The dead girl works on the estate, Tom. They all wear those green quilted vests.”
“Where’s Christine?”
“In an orientation session. I’m supposed to meet her at five thirty at our lodgings. She’s going to introduce me to”—my voice caught—“the other interns.” I blinked. “Is she in danger?”
“This could be an accident. The coroner will know more once he examines the body.” He gave me a quick smile. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”
He signaled to a youngish man in rumpled khakis and a dark trench coat that had seen better days. In his midthirties, I guessed, with a thatch of brown hair, pink cheeks, and ears that stuck out like saucers.
“Sir.” The man climbed the rise, his scuffed shoes coated with mud.
“Kate, this is Detective Sergeant Ryan Cliffe. Cliffe, this is my friend, Kate Hamilton.”
“Pleasure, ma’am.” Sergeant Cliffe blushed to the tips of his ears. His tie was skewed and the collar of his shirt wrinkled. He reminded me of an unmade bed.
“I’ll see you at the house later,” Tom told me. “Can you make it there on your own?”
“Of course. Listen, Tom—do you need to cancel tonight? Because of the case, I mean. I’d understand.”
“Not on your life. I’ll pick you up at seven as planned, but we’d better stick to one of the village pubs in case something comes up.” He gave me his half smile, and I felt a flutter of anticipation. Silly, I know. I’m a woman of forty-six with two adult children. But our hearts have seasons, and mine was emerging from a long hibernation that had begun three years ago when my husband died.
Leave it to me to fall for a man who lives thirty-seven hundred miles away.
Or not. It’s complicated.
I passed the Folly and crossed the Chinese Bridge. A bank of clouds had moved across the sun, flattening the landscape’s winter hues. I shivered, and not just because of the falling temperature.
Inside the high brick walls of the Elizabethan Garden, the air felt warmer. Near a shed at the rear of the garden, the old gardener, the one with the peaked cap, warmed his hands over a fluted brazier. A young man with broad shoulders and short-cropped blond hair joined him. He wore one of the green quilted vests over a faded plaid shirt and a pair of dark-olive cords. He was probably the long-term intern Alex Devereux had mentioned, the one supervising the garden restoration. Even at a distance, I could see his hands were dirty and his cords streaked with mud. The old gardener handed him something—it might have been an envelope or a piece of paper. The young man’s reaction was immediate and violent. He ripped it into pieces and threw them on the fire. The old man raised his hands, clearly exasperated, but the young man turned and disappeared into the shed.
What was that about?
Finchley Hall loomed ahead. Strange how bricks that had looked so rosy in the sunlight had taken on the dull, rusty color of—
No, I wouldn’t say it, even to myself.
The image of the girl in the lake, her dead eyes staring sightlessly at the sky, made me queasy. It also raised a point of logic. How had she ended up on her back with her feet pointing toward the middle of the lake? If she’d slipped and fallen, had she—in an attempt to right herself—done a sort of flip? And where had the blood come from?
I took a deep breath. A month ago, when Tom and I had met in Scotland, it was a death that had drawn us together. He and I had been outsiders, drawn into the investigation by circumstance. This time, Finchley Hall was on his patch. Were we doomed to spend our time together, once again, caught up in a murder investigation?
Because if the young intern with the long blonde hair wasn’t the victim of a tragic accident, she might very well be Finchley Hall’s murder victim number five.
* * *
The formal drawing room at Finchley Hall made me feel like a Lilliputian. The space was massive, dominated by an enormous carved marble fireplace, above which the Finchley coat of arms stood out in high-relief, lime-plaster pargeting. A bird perched on the crest—a finch, no dou
bt—and the shield, quartered in blue and white, pictured a griffin rampant, that mythical beast with the body of a lion and the head and wings of an eagle. He stood on his hind legs, his forepaws in the air, claws extended, wings unfurled. A banner above the shield bore the Latin words FIDELIS, FASTU, FORTITUDO.
Loyalty, pride, courage.
The scent of beeswax polish mingled with the mustiness of old wood, the dust of the ages, and a hint of mildew—an antique dealer’s perfume. Two long serpentine-back sofas flanked the hearth, their green velvet upholstery so thin in places you could see the stiff canvas underlayer. Dried thistle heads on the triple cushions advised visitors to sit elsewhere.
The other members of the two-o’clock tour group sat stiffly in chairs scattered around the room. I chose a Chippendale-style armchair, resisting the urge to flip it over and examine the construction.
Someone cleared his throat. I looked up. A man in pin-striped trousers and a black morning coat strode through from the entrance hall. His hair, suspiciously dark for a man of his age, was slicked back over a high forehead. He looked so much like an actor playing the part of an English butler, I almost laughed. Except he wasn’t acting. He held a silver tea tray in white-gloved hands and looked down his nose at us, as if serving the hoi polloi was below his dignity. Or his pay grade. He must have dressed in a hurry, though. His black tie was crooked, and one of the buttons on his dove-gray vest was undone. He’d probably been pressed into duty at short notice and was none too happy about it. I couldn’t blame him.
“Lady Barbara regrets the shock you have endured,” he said, “and wishes to make you as comfortable as possible whilst you wait. Hot water for tea is available, plus a selection of biscuits. If you prefer coffee or a soft drink, pull the bell cord near the fireplace. We shall do our best to accommodate you.”
The we included a middle-aged blonde in a maid’s uniform—black dress, white apron, thick black stockings. She’d followed him into the room, pushing a rolling cart. They set out the refreshments on a long oak table and left us to ourselves.
The male hikers fell immediately on the refreshments. The rest of us followed their lead. In a crisis, there really is nothing like hot, sweet English tea.
Absolute silence reigned, except for an occasional slurp and the snap of playing cards. The Englishwomen had found a deck—or brought their own. They’d pulled their chairs around a coffee table to play a game that seemed to include a lot of discarding and triumphant looks.
I sat back and sipped my tea. I’d have to call my mother in Ohio before she read about the murder in the local newspaper. And she would—no question. Donald Preston, was sure to find out about my involvement (I couldn’t imagine how, but he always did), and a snarky article would appear in the Gazette. Last October when I had unmasked a killer in the Scottish Hebrides, his headline read JACKSON FALLS’ OWN MISS MARPLE. He’d managed to get the details right while making me sound like an interfering busybody who had stumbled into a murder investigation and survived through a combination of naïveté and dumb luck.
No comment.
I’d never figured out what Preston had against me. Unless it was the letter I’d published years ago in the student-run college newspaper, shredding the logic in his op-ed about limiting foreign enrollment. Or the fact that I’d turned down a second date after he tried to maul me at a fraternity hayride. He should have been grateful I hadn’t reported him to the campus police.
Today I would.
An hour passed. One by one, beginning with the hikers, the other witnesses gave their statements and left. At last, with the afternoon sun casting bright rectangles on the worn Oriental carpet, I sat alone, nursing my third cup of tea and wondering what I’d do if I needed the powder room.
Tom and Sergeant Cliffe entered the drawing room.
“Water still hot?” Cliffe eyed the urn.
“It was fifteen minutes ago.”
He plopped a tea bag in a dainty porcelain cup and reached inside his jacket for a notebook.
Tom pulled up a chair. “We saved you for last, Kate. Now, tell me what you saw. Every detail.”
I began with Danny and the swordplay and ended with the body and the slip of rocks and mud. “I assumed she’d fallen and hit her head. But now that I’ve had time to go back over it in my mind, I think—from the position of the body—she must have gone in backwards and feetfirst. That seems odd.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You noticed that, did you?”
“Something else struck me as not quite right, but I can’t think what it was.”
“Not surprising. You were in shock.” He took my hand in his, and the warmth of his touch brought tears.
I swiped at my eyes. “The whole thing was so bizarre, Tom. The tour guide had just been telling us about Finchley Hall being famous for murder, and then Danny screamed and—” I stopped and took a breath. “In 1996 another girl, a young museum curator, was found dead in that lake. And the gardener who found the body is still working here.”
“We’ll take formal statements from the staff in the morning.” Tom rubbed his chin with his thumb and looked up at me. “The young woman’s name was Tabitha King, one of the long-term interns. She was a student at the University of East Anglia, working toward a graduate degree in museum studies. She came to Finchley Hall in September, specifically to design and prepare an exhibit to open later this month.”
“The Finchley Hoard exhibit. I read about it in the gift shop.”
“The tour guide, Alex, told us Tabitha hadn’t seemed herself lately. In fact, she was scheduled to lead your tour group today but never showed up. Alex had to step in at the last minute.”
“So that’s why the tour was late.”
“We’ve contacted Tabitha’s parents. They told us she’d been taking antidepressants for almost a year. It’s possible her death was planned.”
“Suicide?” My hand flew to my heart, imagining what a verdict of suicide would do to those parents. “What a tragedy—if it’s true. Whatever had gone wrong in her life would have mended. She had every reason to look forward.”
I wasn’t exactly the poster child for that statement, but Tom didn’t say so. He gave me a one-armed hug. “Where shall I pick you up? I’m looking forward to meeting your daughter.”
“Follow signs for the Stables. There’s a small parking area across from the entrance.”
Sergeant Cliffe shoved his notebook in his jacket and threw down the last of his tea.
Tom gave me that charming half smile. “See you tonight.”
I stood at the windows and watched them drive off in a white Ford Focus with the distinctive blue-and-yellow Battenburg markings of the British police.
At nearly four o’clock, the light was fading fast. Christine would be back from her orientation session in an hour or so. I’d have time to shower and change. Maybe even catch a power nap. I set my teacup on the oak table and took a last glance at the drawing room. Portraits of long-dead Finchleys gazed at me with smug equanimity. Had they really been that pleased with life? Grief must have invaded this house many times in the four-hundred-plus years of its existence. Now there was a new tragedy to add to the weight of sorrow.
My heart ached for Tabitha’s parents. Burying a child is a parent’s worst nightmare. I thought of my own children. Losing my husband, Bill, had left me stunned and profoundly grieving, but I still had Eric and Christine.
Gratitude washed over me. Soon I’d hold my daughter in my arms, look in her eyes, hear her voice. That thought led to another. Christine had been at Finchley Hall only a week, but she would have met Tabitha, spoken with her. Had she noticed anything that would explain the girl’s death?
My daughter may not be the best judge of men—let’s be honest—but her perceptions of women are usually spot on.
Chapter Three
The Stables, which—glad as I was to have a free place to live—had sounded rather primitive, turned out to be a comfortable and surprisingly attractive living space for the intern
s. Along with the original stone floors and thick, plastered-brick walls, the builder had incorporated the original ironwork and stable doors into the design. I found the combination of clean lines, pale colors, and historic details attractive and soothing.
The Commons, a gathering place for the interns, occupied the center of the U-shaped building. Two long hallways set at right angles to the central block contained the living quarters. Some of the interns—Christine, for example—had a roommate. My suite was a single. Besides a platform bed covered in a crisp white duvet, I had a built-in desk, a small dresser, a metal swing-arm lamp, and a love seat slipcovered in off-white denim. Next to a tiny kitchenette, a freestanding closet divided the bedroom from a tiled bathroom and shower. A deep-set window looked out on a brick terrace. Two large skylights in the slanted ceiling let in the sun and the stars.
After showering and changing clothes, I decided I was too restless to sleep and caught up on my emails. At six twenty, with no sign of Christine, I wandered into the Commons. A young man sprawled on a gray IKEA-style sofa. He was watching something sporty on TV. His stocking-clad feet rested on a tack box repurposed as a coffee table.
“Hi,” I said, expecting no more than a wave of acknowledgment.
He clicked off the TV and sat up. “Oh, hullo. You must be Christine’s mum. I’m Michael Nash, one of the new interns.” Shaggy red hair, an upturned nose, and slightly pointed ears gave him a puckish look.
“Glad to meet you, Michael.”
“I suppose you heard about the … death.” He grimaced. “Tabitha, one of the interns.”
“Did you know her well?”
“Not really. I mean, I’d met her, but I only arrived last week.”
“Have you seen Christine? She was supposed to be here forty-five minutes ago.”