by Connie Berry
A cold draft blew in as the pub door opened. Michael Nash entered, followed by Prue Goody, Christine and Tristan, and Alex Devereux.
“Mom?” Christine and Tristan threaded their way to our table. “You didn’t tell me you were having dinner at the Finchley Arms.”
“I didn’t know.”
Tom stood, and I introduced them.
“Great to meet you,” Tom said. “I understand you’re at Magdalen College. I was at Trinity.”
“Were you really?” Christine’s smile was as sincere as a Chinese Rolex.
Tom didn’t notice. Or was too polite to show it. “How about you, Tristan?”
“I’m at Oxford Brookes, studying architecture.”
“What’s your opinion of that new glass building, the one that looks like …” The two men began a conversation.
I hugged my daughter. “When do you begin your work?” Christine’s internship, she’d explained in one of her rare emails (I’d thought about printing it out and framing it), involved organizing and cataloging a mass of Finchley family documents spanning nearly three hundred years. Luckily for her, organizational skills hadn’t been included in the Finchley DNA.
“Monday, officially, but I’m going to spend some time in the archives tomorrow to get a feel for what I’ll be dealing with. Why don’t you stop by—or will you be checking out the antique shops? Long Barston has three, by the way. All on the High Street.”
“I have no plans tomorrow. I’d love to see what you’re doing. How about Tristan? When does he begin at the guildhall?”
“Soon. He’d been helping Tabitha with the Hoard exhibit— carrying heavy items, putting up posters, stuff like that. Wasted effort, I imagine. Without Tabitha, I don’t see how Lady Barbara can pull it off.”
“I hope she has a backup plan.”
Christine and I watched Michael Nash shove two tables together. Prue Goody removed some empty pint glasses and carried them to the bar.
My eyes felt dry. I rubbed them with my knuckles.
“You must be exhausted,” Christine said.
“At the moment, I’m wide awake. Finding a dead body has a way of doing that.”
The jukebox in the corner roared to life. Alex Devereux pushed some buttons, and music—something fast and funky—ramped up the already deafening noise level.
“Christine,” Michael shouted. He made a circular motion with his hand, indicating he was buying a round.
She held up a finger—just a minute.
The door opened again, and the well-built young man I’d seen in the garden appeared. He’d swapped his work clothes for jeans and a black zip-up fleece jacket. He hesitated for a moment, as if deciding whether to stay. Now that I saw him close up, I couldn’t help staring. He wasn’t just good-looking. He was gorgeous.
“That’s Peter Ingham, one of the long-termers,” Christine said. “He’s working on his doctorate—the history of landscape gardening. Prue and I think he should dump the plants and take up male modeling.”
“I see what you mean.”
Alex Devereux saw him, too. Her face lit up. “Peter,” she shouted over the noise. “Come join us.”
He shook his head and nudged his way toward the end of the bar, where the old gardener gave him a clout on the back. Either their argument had ended amicably or I’d misunderstood what I’d witnessed earlier. That’s the problem with noticing details. You don’t always interpret them correctly.
“Is Peter always so unsociable?”
“Pretty much.” Christine made a little moue of regret. “He hangs out with the gardener mostly. I think he’s avoiding Alex. I heard there’s some history between them.”
Loads of history here, I thought, and not all the kind that makes it into books. “What did you think of Tabitha?”
“Nice girl. Serious. Religious, I think. At least she spent a lot of time at St. Æthelric’s. But that might have been because of the dishy vicar.”
“Do you really think she killed herself?”
The question brought a frown. “I couldn’t say. She was secretive. She had a look that said I know something you don’t.”
“Come, chére,” Tristan said. “We’re ordering food.”
“See you later—when you get back, maybe?” I said.
“Okay—bye, Mom. Nice to meet you, Tom.”
“Your daughter is lovely,” Tom said as we watched them join the other interns.
“And Tristan?”
“Nice chap. Serious about architecture.”
A new song began, one I recognized. Christine had played it endlessly the previous summer. The interns got up to dance, if dancing is what you call it these days. Lots of arm movements, posing. No one had a specific partner.
“Wonderful to be young,” I said, feeling every one of my forty-six years.
“Oh, yes. We were much more dignified in our day. Remember mosh pits?”
I winced, picturing my big hair and a boyfriend who had been into grunge.
In the middle of the dancers, Alex Devereux stood still, her eyes fixed on Peter at the end of the bar. Then, as if pulled by a magnet, she made her way toward him.
I watched, fascinated by the physical beauty of the two young people—a matched pair. Peter turned toward Alex on his barstool. She held out both arms, moving to the rhythm of the music. Dance with me. Her hair, loose tonight, tossed from side to side in a tangle of dark curls.
He turned his back on her.
For the briefest of moments, pain registered on Alex’s lovely face. Then she shrugged. And turned her smile on Tristan Sorel.
Another song began, something slow this time, by Bruno Mars. Alex pulled Tristan onto the dance floor, threaded her arm around his waist, and leaned into him.
I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. “She’s vamping him, Tom. Right in front of my daughter.”
“And he’s eating it up.”
He was, too—like a moth, fluttering around a pretty flame.
I didn’t need to see Christine’s face. The stiffness of her back told me everything. She whispered something in Prue’s ear, grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair, and ran out of the pub.
I thought of the darkness outside—and the killer. “Should I go after her, Tom?”
He touched my arm. “Wait.”
It was good advice, because Tristan had seen Christine leave as well. Disentangling himself from Alex, he took off after her.
The music revved up again.
Tom’s phone must have vibrated, because he put it to his ear.
He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Right. On my way.” He slid his phone back into his pocket. “I’m sorry, Kate. I’ll have to drop you at the Stables. That was the coroner. Tabitha was murdered. And she was three months pregnant.”
* * *
Tom and I stood outside the door to the Stables.
“Not exactly the evening I’d planned.” He pulled me into his arms.
I laid my head against his chest. “You have to do your job.”
“I wanted this night to be special. Great food. Wonderful atmosphere. Just the two of us.”
“I can wait.”
“For how long?”
“As long as I have to.” I made a face. “Well, two weeks, anyway.”
He looked at me with those hazel eyes.
I looked at him and felt a little like a moth myself.
He kissed me. Properly.
Then he was gone.
The Commons was dark and quiet. I’d half expected to find Christine, throwing breakable things at Tristan. They would have arrived well ahead of us. The footpath from the village to Finchley Hall cut diagonally through the park, chopping a good two miles off the circuitous drive along dark, narrow roads banked with hedgerows. At night in the English countryside, the maximum safe driving speed is about twelve.
Peeling off my jacket, I switched on a lamp and made my way to my room. As I passed Christine’s room, I knocked.
No one answe
red, but I heard someone sniff.
“Christine? It’s me. Are you okay?”
The door opened a few inches. She’d changed into a pair of flannel pajama bottoms and a T-shirt. Her eyes were red.
“I’m sorry,” I said, and stopped before saying something I’d regret. Actually, I already regretted saying I’m sorry. When Christine is hurt, the last thing she wants is sympathy.
She shot me a stony look and opened the door just wide enough for me to slip through. The room looked like a hurricane had blown through. The twin beds were a jumble of linens. Clothes lay everywhere, along with a scattering of books and papers. She had been throwing things after all.
Christine had always been a mystery to me, even as a child. Happy, outgoing Eric was like his father—steady, even-tempered. You knew where you stood with him. But Christine was a contradiction. Passionate to a fault, impulsive—even reckless—she approached life with the abandon of a runaway freight train. Then, when the inevitable crash came, she’d withdraw into herself and refuse to be comforted. Even a simple How are you? might be taken as criticism.
I didn’t know where to start. I didn’t have to.
“You saw what he did.” Christine threw herself on one of the beds.
I sat on the other bed and waited.
She glared at me. “I’m an idiot, right? I should be ashamed of myself—a bad judge of men. That’s what you want to say, isn’t it?”
“Of course not. You didn’t do anything wrong. Alex Devereux is the one who should be ashamed. And Tristan.”
“You don’t like him, do you?” Her face turned pink. “Another of poor, clueless Christine’s disastrous relationships.”
“Look. I don’t blame you for being angry. But, to be fair, not many men would be immune to what Alex had on offer.”
“Leave me alone.” She buried her face in the pillow.
I stood. “I love you, Christine. I’m on your side. Never forget that.”
I was closing the door to Christine’s room when I saw Tristan skulking in the darkened hallway.
“She okay, Maman?”
Did he think calling me mother would endear him to me? “She will be,” I said coldly.
As I turned toward my room, I heard him knock on Christine’s door.
“Ma chère? Ma petite? Je suis Désolé.”
Chapter Five
Sunday, December 6th
The bells of St. Æthelric’s nudged me out of a deep sleep. I stretched and considered emerging from my warm cocoon to face the day. Oh, not yet. Rolling on my back, I pulled the duvet to my chin. Back home in Jackson Falls, the time would be … well, the wee hours, anyway.
Beside the point. The hands on my clock pointed accusingly to ten fifteen.
Villagers in sturdy tweeds would be gathering outside St. Æthelric’s Church in the village. Too late to catch a glimpse of the dishy vicar. There was always Evensong, but tonight I’d been invited to attend Lady Barbara’s official welcome dinner for the new interns—that is, if the dinner was still on. I hadn’t heard otherwise.
Tom had said he’d try to phone but couldn’t guarantee we’d have time together that day—or even the next. He and Sergeant Cliffe would be busy with interviews. The crime scene manager had called in a dive team and a forensic pathologist. Depending on what they found, Tom anticipated some long days ahead.
I nestled further into my pillow and looked up through the skylights. Yesterday’s blue skies were gone, replaced by gray clouds threatening rain. No wonder the English greet the brief appearances of the winter sun with deep suspicion.
Christine would have grabbed a mug of coffee and headed for the archives hours ago. Her mood, changeable as English weather, would depend upon Tristan’s powers of persuasion last night. I had no doubt she would eventually forgive him. Her temper might have been volatile, but she’d never been one to hold a grudge. I admired her ability to forgive. That and her sense of loyalty. I pictured the stubborn little chin that went up when she, age seven, had taken the punishment that should have been her brother’s for hiding the babysitter’s iPod. Eric, tortured by remorse, had finally told us the truth. Christine would have kept his secret until doomsday.
Then I thought of Tristan locked in that clinch with Alex Devereux. If Christine had forgiven him, I hoped she hadn’t made it easy.
Thinking about last night reminded me of Tom’s phone call from the coroner. Tabitha had been pregnant, probably the reason she’d stopped taking her medication. She’d been at Finchley Hall since September. That meant the father of her child could be one of the interns. Not Michael Nash—he’d just arrived. The same went for Tristan. I could see Tabitha falling for the gorgeous Peter Ingham, but no one had mentioned they were a couple. I wondered how many male interns had left Finchley Hall in the last two months. Alex would know, but at the moment I didn’t think I could have a polite conversation with the beautiful Miss Devereux.
A door slammed somewhere down the hall.
Throwing back the duvet, I slipped out of bed and found my robe. With the whole day free, I’d stop at the archives building to see if Christine was in the mood to talk. First, though, I wanted to take another look at the place where we’d found Tabitha’s body. I wasn’t naïve enough to think I’d find additional clues—the police had gone over the area with a fine-tooth comb—but seeing the place again might dispel the uneasy feeling I’d been unable to shake. Something about the crime scene hadn’t seemed right, and not just the girl’s position in the water.
My stomach growled, reminding me I’d eaten almost nothing at the Finchley Arms the night before. I was famished. Fortunately, Christine had stocked my small refrigerator with a few essentials from the Tesco at the roundabout outside the village. I downed a bowl of granola with nonfat milk and two cups of strong coffee.
An hour later, I bundled into my down jacket and wool scarf and made my way through the Elizabethan Garden toward the park. It had rained overnight. Puddles of water dotted the gravel path. Neither Peter nor the old gardener was in sight. Perhaps the soil was too wet to work.
The cold, damp air smelled pleasantly of boxwood and wet earth. I followed the route taken by our tour group, through the walled garden, across the Chinese Bridge, and past the Folly to Blackwater Lake. A fine mist floated on the water’s surface, partially obscuring a line of ducks bobbing near the far shore.
Crime scene tape was still in place. I tried to imagine the scene just before Tabitha went into the water. Had she met the baby’s father there to break the news of the pregnancy? Maybe he’d insisted she abort the child, and when she refused, lost his temper and struck her. I closed my eyes. How did the slip of rocks and mud fit in?
I was about to leave when I heard a splash, followed by a scream.
Running toward the sound, I spotted an elderly woman in an olive raincoat and wide-brimmed rain hat. She stood at the water’s edge, holding a leash from which an empty collar dangled.
“Help,” she cried. “My dog fell in the lake.”
A small dog—a pug, I thought—fought to keep his head above water, but he was losing ground. I saw panic in his large bulging eyes as he flapped ineffectively.
“He was chasing ducks,” the woman wailed. “But he can’t swim.”
I looked at the cold water. Then at the dog.
I couldn’t just let the poor creature die.
Throwing off my jacket and scarf, I picked my way down to the water and waded in. The good news was the shock instantly turned my feet numb. The bad news? The sky chose that moment to open up.
I waded in further, blinking against the pelting rain. The lake bottom fell away quickly, and within seconds the murky water had reached my knees. I felt for solid footing, fearing a sudden drop-off would plunge me into the depths like the struggling animal. If that happened, I’d be helpless, weighed down by my jeans and heavy sweater.
A moment of panic gripped me, but I pushed my wet hair aside and forced myself to focus on the dog.
The pug was v
ertical in the water now, his front paws still flapping but more slowly. He was running out of steam. His tongue had a bluish tinge.
He saw me coming.
“Hold on, boy. Good dog. I’m almost there.”
I reached for him but fell short. I slogged forward through long green tendrils that swirled around my thighs. Feeling for the bottom was no longer an option. My feet were completely numb. Losing my balance was a distinct possibility.
Keep going. Another foot or so.
I reached for the dog again, realizing only then that, without his collar, there was virtually nothing to grab on to. He was a solid little guy with a short, slick coat. And I’d lost feeling in my fingers.
I tried again, but he slipped away, out of my grasp.
Then he disappeared.
The woman on the shore screamed.
Holding back my dripping hair with one hand, I swept my free hand back and forth under the water. Nothing.
Where is he? Am I too late?
My right hand bumped something solid.
Gritting my teeth, I grabbed whatever I could—the loose skin on the dog’s scruff, as it turned out—and held on for dear life as I pulled him toward the surface.
When the dog’s head broke the surface, he actually gasped.
I edged backward step by step, not daring to turn my head for fear the dog would slip away again. The receding depth of the water told me I was going in the right direction.
At last I reached the shallows. The dog scrambled onto dry land and gave himself a mighty shake.
“Oh, my dear. You saved him.” The woman unwound her wool scarf and wrapped it around the dog. She scooped him up and held the trembling animal to her breast.
I was trembling too.
“How can I ever thank you? If you hadn’t come along, I’m certain Fergus would have drowned.”
“I’m g-glad I got to him in t-time.” My teeth were chattering so violently I could hardly get the words out.
“We must get you into dry clothes immediately.”
“I’m staying at the Stables at F-finchley Hall.”
“Too far. You’ll catch your death. My name is Vivian—Vivian Bunn—and my cottage is just over there.” She pointed through the trees to a pale-pink, timber-beamed cottage with a steeply pitched thatched roof. “You’re coming with me,” she said in a tone that would brook no argument. “We’ll get you warm and dry in a jiffy.”