by Connie Berry
“She and Tristan stayed after the meeting to chat to the man in charge of the guildhall project.”
He meant Tristan Sorel, Christine’s latest boyfriend. Tristan, an architecture student, had come to Suffolk to study the preservation of timber-framed buildings. He’d be working, Christine had told me, at a medieval guildhall in Long Barston. To say I was looking forward to meeting him would be an exaggeration. Christine has a habit of falling for guys she thinks are too good to be true, and they usually prove her right.
“Where will you be working?” I asked Michael.
“The Rare Breeds Farm. I’m studying to be a veterinary surgeon.” He grinned. “Real farm animals, not lapdogs and budgies.”
“You’ve come to the right place then.” I’d noticed the Rare Breeds Farm on the Finchley Hall guide map. “Who runs the farm?”
“A couple of local farmers, in exchange for grazing land for their own herds. We don’t have many animals at present. Just a few sheep and chickens, several pigs, a donkey, two Dexter bullocks.” He swung his legs off the wooden tack box. His eyes shone with excitement. “Finchley Hall received a grant last year from the Rare Breeds Survival Trust. I’ll be identifying and sourcing some of the early breeds—those at risk and those closest, genetically, to the animals one might have seen centuries ago on a Suffolk farm.”
“I’ll stop over someday. I’d love to see the animals.”
Our conversation was interrupted when Christine burst in, followed by a young man I recognized from his photos as Tristan Sorel.
“Mom.” Christine threw herself into my arms. “Sorry I’m late.” She pulled back to look at me. “Did you hear about Tabitha? Everyone says it was suicide.” She shivered, and not only because the T-shirt she wore under her jacket revealed several inches of bare belly.
“Unfortunately, I was there when her body was found.” I brushed back Christine’s thick, dark hair to look at her face, seeing distress but not anguish. I’d wait to ask about her impressions of Tabitha until we were alone.
Christine reached for her companion. “Mom, this is Tristan Sorel.” She took a quick breath. She was afraid I wouldn’t like him.
I was afraid of the same thing.
Tristan was taller than he’d looked in his photos, six feet, maybe. He wore a close-fitting tweed jacket over a buttoned sweater. The striped scarf I remembered from the first photo Christine had sent was tucked under both jacket and sweater, leaving the ends to trail out the bottom. His hair, shaved at the sides, fell in a mop over his eyes. He looked like someone who might bring a manual typewriter to a coffee shop for the effect.
“Mrs. Hamilton.” Tristan made a formal bow and took my hand. I was afraid for a moment he was going to kiss it, but he let it drop. “I am happy to meet you at last, Maman. I can see the resemblance—those so charming blue eyes, that chestnut hair—une belle femme, as we say in France.” His accent wasn’t quite French, and I must have looked confused, because he added, “My family is from Strasbourg. We speak French, of course, but German is our native tongue.”
Oh, I could see the attraction, all right. Tristan had the kind of looks Christine always falls for—dark and mysterious with a hint of the misunderstood bad boy.
“Hiya, Tristan.” Michael Nash reached out, and they exchanged some kind of double fist bump.
“Will you join us at the Arms tonight?” Tristan asked him.
“Brilliant.” Michael’s face clouded. “That is, if everyone’s going. I thought … under the circumstances … well …” He trailed off.
“Tonight we shall toast Tabitha’s memory. All we can do, no?”
“You, too, Mom.” Christine said. “Come to the pub with us. Around eight.”
“I’m sorry. I’m having dinner with Tom. Another night?”
“Sure. Fine.”
I can read my daughter’s face as easily as the marks on old silver. She’d loved her father very much, and the thought of another man in my life wasn’t something she was prepared to accept. Yet.
A young woman slammed through the door, threw off a striped wool poncho, and burst into tears. “Sorry, sorry.” She waved one hand as she wiped her eyes on the sleeve of a long, loosely woven dress.
“My roommate,” Christine whispered before introducing us.
Prue Goody was the stocky young woman who’d sold me the tour ticket. She had a round pink face and curly brown hair that she appeared to be coaxing into dreadlocks.
“I can’t believe it.” Prue dropped onto the sofa beside Michael Nash. “Poor Tabitha.”
“Were you close?” I asked gently.
“Not really.” Prue looked at Christine. “I don’t think she even liked me.”
“Alex says she was depressed,” Christine said. “She was taking pills for it.”
Prue wrinkled her forehead. “That can’t be right. I offered her a paracetamol the other day—she had a headache—and she said she didn’t take drugs.”
Strange. Why would the girl’s parents say she was taking an antidepressant if she wasn’t? Or was Tabitha one of those patients who pretend to take her medicine and then bury the pills in a potted plant? “What was Tabitha like?”
“I would have said reserved.” Prue’s eyes fell to her lap. “Of course, Alex knew her best. They were roommates for a while, although I don’t think they got along. Tabitha moved in with me for a week or so before she got her own room.”
“What if it wasn’t … well, suicide?” Michael’s forehead creased with concern. “Tabitha mentioned seeing a strange man near the Folly a few days ago—remember?”
“A strange man?” I didn’t like the sound of that.
“Just someone she didn’t know.” Christine dismissed the thought with a flap of her hand.
“She told the butler at the Hall,” Michael said. “He blew her off.”
“Of course he did,” Christine said. “Lots of people walk in the park. It’s open to the public. There’s a footpath from the village.”
“I saw Tabitha this morning.” Prue snuffled and wiped her eyes. “I’d come out to get coffee. She said she was on her way to the archives. Same as always.”
The estate archives building, I’d seen on my map of the grounds, was set off by itself, east of the main house and skirting the northern perimeter of Finchley Park.
“Were you and Tabitha going to work together, Christine?”
“Same building, that’s all. Tabitha worked downstairs with the Hoard artifacts. My office will be upstairs in the family archives.”
Without any of us noticing, Michael Nash had made Prue a mug of tea. He handed her the mug and mumbled, “Thought you might … well.”
Prue smiled gratefully.
Christine looked at Michael with a kind of puzzled admiration. Tristan saw the look and laid a proprietary arm around her shoulders. Did he see Michael as a threat?
Headlights swung an arc across the bank of windows.
“My ride’s here.” I grabbed my coat and handbag and gave Christine a quick hug.
Christine could meet Tom later. I’d had just about enough drama for one day.
Tonight I’d keep him for myself.
Chapter Four
I watched Tom juggle a pint of beer, a pitcher of water, and a glass of white wine to our table in the Finchley Arms. “Just so you know, I did ask for Chardonnay.” He set our drinks on a couple of stained beer coasters. “The barman said wine comes red or white.”
“No problem.” I scooted my chair farther into the corner to make room at the tiny table. The pub was jam-packed, and the low-beamed ceiling, rather than lending an old-world ambience, made me feel slightly claustrophobic. The only signs of Christmas were a string of colored lights drooping over the bar and a sparse tree decorated with tinsel and beer coasters. We’d chosen a spot in a narrow side room, away from the dartboard and the patrons standing two deep at the bar. Among them, seated at the end of the counter and staring into his pint, was the old gardener from Finchley Hall. He’d removed his peaked cap, revealing
a sparse comb-over.
“I thought I was going to meet Christine tonight,” Tom said.
“She had plans.” My conscience made a sly reference to lies and half-truths. “That is, she did, but the truth is, I didn’t feel like sharing you just yet.”
A slow smile spread across his face. “In that case, I can wait.” He kissed my hair. “Oh, I’ve missed you, Kate—more than you can imagine.”
I smiled, afraid my voice wouldn’t work. In the month we’d been apart, there’d hardly been an hour when I hadn’t thought of him. If one of us fell short in the imagination department, I was pretty sure it would be him.
“How are things on Glenroth?” he asked. “Have you spoken with Nancy Holden?”
Nancy Holden and her husband were the cook and groundskeeper at Glenroth House, the country house hotel in the Scottish Hebrides previously owned by my husband’s sister. I’d gone to the island to patch up my relationship with my sister-in-law. Tom had gone there for a break after a homeland security conference in Glasgow. We’d run into each other in the middle of a snowstorm. Literally.
“Everyone’s fine, she says. The new owners are surprisingly easy to work with.”
“Glad to hear it.” He lifted his pint. “How’s the wine?”
I took my first sip. “Fingernail polish remover.”
“I was afraid of that. Something tells me this pub isn’t known for its cuisine.”
Something was telling me the same thing. A sign behind the bar said HOT WOMEN SERVED FIRST. GET USED TO IT. A fire burned in the stone hearth, but the effect was spoiled by a line of gaming machines. Our table felt sticky.
“How did you choose the Finchley Arms? Didn’t we pass another pub on the way?”
“Yes—the Three Magpies. Sergeant Cliffe’s grandmother lives in Long Barston. She warned us off that one. I believe her exact words were, ‘Opened three year ago. We don’t take to newcomers round here.’” Tom’s imitation of a Suffolk accent made me laugh.
“How long has the Finchley Arms been around, then?”
“Since the Norman invasion, apparently.” He grinned. “They say the proprietor has spies, taking down the names of locals disloyal enough to try the competition.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want that. Let’s see what this place has on the menu.” I craned my neck to view the chalkboard behind the bar. “Fish and chips, chicken tenders and chips, and pizza.”
Tom groaned. “I’d planned to take you to a special place, Kate—the Trout, near my village—but I’m waiting to hear from the coroner. If he calls, I may have to leave.”
“Never mind,” I said, putting on my optimistic face. “I’ll try the chicken tenders.” Tom got up to place our orders, and I imagined the wonders of the Trout. Since the term gastropub entered the British lexicon in the nineties, fine cooking has made its way into almost every village in England. Almost.
Tom lived in Saxby St. Clare, a village fifteen miles north of Long Barston and thirty miles south of Bury St. Edmunds, where he worked. His household included his daughter, Olivia, currently taking her gap year in East Africa, and his mother, Liz, who’d moved in four years ago when his wife died of cancer.
“My mother’s not keen on Americans,” Tom had confessed during one of our transatlantic phone calls. “You’ll win her over.”
“Win her over?” I’d said. “Remind me again why I have to meet her?”
“Because I love you. Because I want her to love you. Because you’ll win her over.” His confidence in me was touchingly naïve.
Tom returned. “One chicken tenders and one fish and chips, coming up.”
“We can try the Trout another night. Come sit. Any news about Tabitha?” I wondered how much Tom would tell me about the investigation.
“We had a preliminary chat with the butler and the cook. We’ll take their formal statements tomorrow, along with Lady Finchley-fforde and anyone else present on the estate that day. The butler, Mr. Mugg, is making a list.”
“Mugg. Sounds like a character in an Agatha Christie novel.”
“He wasn’t best pleased we’d be speaking with his lady, I can tell you. He fancies himself as her gatekeeper. Only too happy for us to question the interns, though. He managed to imply we’d find the answer among them.”
“They did know Tabitha best.” I told Tom what Prue Goody had said about Tabitha not taking medication. Then I pointed out the old man at the bar. “There’s the gardener I told you about, the one who found the body of the young museum curator years ago.”
“On our list.”
“Tom,” I said, picking up my wine glass and considering a second sip, “do you think it’s significant that both murders—Tabitha and the one twenty-three years ago—involved young women working on an exhibit of the Hoard? It’s almost as if someone didn’t want the exhibit to happen.”
“Certainly a line of enquiry.”
“And then there’s the old gardener. I saw him yesterday with a young man—another one of the interns, I think. They seemed to be arguing.”
Tom took a swallow of beer and wiped his mouth. “It’s odd.”
“That they were arguing?”
“No.” He laughed. “I was thinking about us. In Scotland we were outsiders, able to see things others couldn’t because they were too close. Now I’m on my own turf. Your insight could be helpful.”
“I’m not a trained observer.”
“You’ve already seen what others haven’t—the position of the body, for example. In Scotland it was your ability to notice details and patterns that led to the killer. If you see patterns now—like the museum thing—I want you to tell me. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not suggesting you involve yourself in the investigation. No offense, Kate, but I don’t want you in harm’s way again.”
“Believe me.” I took his arm. “That’s the last place I want to be.”
A frowsy woman in patterned tights and a less-than-pristine apron appeared with two plates of food. She plunked them down and snagged a bottle of vinegar from the next table.
“That was quick,” Tom said.
Too quick. I pictured pans of premade chicken and fish drying out under heat lamps.
“You’re police.” The waitress eyed Tom with a knowing look. “’Ere about that girl what’s been found in Blackwater Lake.” She’d rimmed her small, round eyes with thick black liner, making them look even smaller.
“That’s right,” Tom said.
“You ’eard about the stranger, then—one’s been ’angin’ round the village.”
“I haven’t heard,” Tom said. “What about him?”
“Just that ’e’s not English, is ’e? Foreigner—sort of Mediterranean, if you know what I mean.”
“Has he done anything to cause concern?”
“No,” she said in a voice that meant yes. “Only what’s ’e doin’ ’ere? That’s what we want to know. ’E shows up, and a young woman is found dead.” She raised her chin as if scoring a point.
“What does he look like?”
“Fifties, maybe. Rough. Funny cap, pulled low over ’is face. Come in ’ere night b’fore last.” She gave Tom that knowing look again. “Drank a few pints, slapped down ’is coins, an’ left without so much as a by-your-leave.”
A criminal, obviously—or worse yet, a newcomer.
“Do you know where he’s staying?”
“’As to be the Three Magpies, doesn’t it? Only place with rooms—’cept that new place on the A road toward Sudbury.”
Tom reached inside his jacket and pulled out a card. “Thank you, Miss”—he glanced at the name badge pinned to her apron —“Briony.”
“It’s Mrs.—Mrs. Briony Peacock.” She flicked her head toward the bar, where a tall man with a meager gray ponytail was pulling a pint. “We own the place, me and Stephen.”
“Order’s ready,” Stephen Peacock snarled. “No time fer chattin’ up the punters.”
Tom handed her his card. “If this stranger breaks any laws, give me a call.”
Briony flung herself off with a shrug of her shoulders.
“What do you think?” I asked when she was out of earshot.
“A dark stranger who drinks alone? Very suspicious indeed.” He speared a chip with his fork. “That’s the trouble with a village, Kate. They don’t trust strangers. I will have to look into it, though.”
“Michael Nash, one of the interns, mentioned a stranger on the Finchley Hall estate. Actually it was Tabitha who saw him near the Folly. No mention of his looking Mediterranean.” Three spears of dry breaded chicken lay on my plate. I cut off a bite and popped it in my mouth. Followed by a swallow of the fingernail polish remover.
Tom had just tasted his fish. “I am sorry, Kate. Do you want to leave?”
“And risk getting written up for disloyalty? Let’s eat what we can—the chips aren’t too bad—and when we get back to the Stables, I’ll make you an omelet.”
He gave me that half smile, and I went all wobbly inside.
He sprinkled his chips liberally with vinegar.
“How’s Olivia?” I asked, remembering the photograph of his daughter he’d shown me in Scotland. She was in East Africa, taking her gap year at an orphanage for AIDS babies.
Tom shrugged. “She was meant to come home in July, only we got an email last week. She says her time at the orphanage has caused her to rethink her decision to study chemistry.”
“Caring for orphans is an admirable thing to do.”
“I agree,” Tom said, “and I want Olivia to do something worthwhile with her life. But she did well enough on her A levels to get a place at King’s College, Cambridge. I wouldn’t like to see her throw that opportunity away.” He speared another chip but seemed to think better of it and put the fork down. “How’s Eric?”
“Still in Italy, finishing up his research at the nuclear waste facility. I thought he’d be home for Christmas, but he met a girl, a fellow student. She invited him to join her family at their ski lodge in the Italian Alps. How do I compete with that?”
“It’s not easy parenting young adults, is it? Just when we feel most compelled to give advice, they feel least inclined to accept it.”