A Legacy of Murder

by Connie Berry

  I squelched after her.

  The rain was pelting down, and I was in no mood to argue.

  * * *

  Rose Cottage—that’s what the nameplate beside the door said—was a small jewel box. I sat in my damp underwear, wrapped in a soft blanket, near a crackling fire. The dog, Fergus, lay nearby in his basket, barely visible beneath a plaid shawl. Every so often his body trembled, but he was warming up and beginning to relax. He licked his nose, and I saw his tongue was pink again.

  My boots steamed on the radiator. The rest of my wet clothes were tumbling in Vivian’s dryer. She’d made a pot of strong, sweet tea and warm chicken sandwiches with peach chutney on brown bread. I’d never tasted anything so marvelous in my whole life.

  Vivian, once she’d removed her rain gear and the heavy woolen coat beneath, wasn’t quite as elderly or as round as I’d first thought. I would describe her as a healthy, comfortably upholstered woman on the downslope of her seventies. She wore a tweed skirt and wool twinset that made me think of Miss Marple, but her hair, the color of old pewter, was cut in a short pixie brush-up. Firm lines around her mouth told me she didn’t suffer fools gladly, and her eyes were that shade of gray I associate with lively intelligence.

  “It was the ducks.” She bent to tuck Fergus’s shawl around him. He rewarded her with a low, satisfied snort. “He bolted—slipped right out of his collar. Took me quite by surprise. We walk along the lake twice a day—morning and afternoon. He’s never done anything like that before.”

  “Always at the same times?”

  She gave me a sharp look. “You’re wondering about that young woman. You want to know if I saw her the day she died.”

  It wasn’t a question, but it demanded a response. “I was in the group that found her. My daughter is one of the new interns.”

  “Ah.” Vivian nodded. She considered me for a moment, as if deciding how much to say. “I did not see the poor girl the day she died. I wish I had. The villagers say it was suicide.”

  Another statement that demanded a response, but Tom had warned me to keep the coroner’s verdict to myself.

  I answered obliquely. “I hope it wasn’t suicide, for her parents’ sake.”

  Fergus, close to the fire and swathed in the woolen shawl, began to pant noisily. His long pink tongue lolled to one side.

  “Tush, now,” Vivian ordered, and to my surprise, Fergus obeyed. She turned back to me. “You’re concerned about your daughter.”

  “One of the interns said Tabitha saw a strange man near the Folly.”

  “A random killing?” Vivian stiffened. Maybe I’d frightened her. She lived alone, after all, with only a small, obese dog for protection.

  “Whatever the reason for Tabitha’s death,” I said, shifting away from homicidal maniacs, “it won’t comfort her parents.”

  “No. They’re arriving today from somewhere north—toward Norfolk, I believe. Lady Barbara has made one of the estate cottages available to them.”

  “That’s kind of her.”

  “Lady Barbara is a kind woman, generous to a fault. I was private secretary to her husband, Cedru fforde—two smalls f’s. When he died in 1999, I received a pension and life tenancy in Rose Cottage. Her doing, I’m certain. The Finchleys have always been loyal employers. Up until the Second World War, most of the local families worked on the estate in one capacity or another.”

  “Her husband’s name, Cedru fforde, is unusual.”

  “Old Welsh. His family made a fortune in copper and lead mining. Cedru’s marriage to Lady Barbara came at the right moment. With death duties and the cost of maintaining an estate as old as Finchley Hall, her father, the Marquess of Suffolk, was nearly forced to sell up. The infusion of cash saved the day. He insisted his daughter retain the Finchley name, so they were hyphenated.”

  “How long have you known the family?”

  “Practically all my life. I was hired just after the engagement was announced. My first task was managing the wedding arrangements.” She smiled at the memory. “The social event of the summer, in spite of the fact that the ffordes weren’t quite what Lady Barbara’s parents had envisioned for her. In the end the choice was between a poor aristocrat and a wealthy tradesman.”

  “And they chose the wealthy tradesman.”

  “Oh, Lady Barbara did the choosing. It was a love match. Quite a stunning couple they were, too. She, fair and slim with pale-blonde hair. He, tall and handsome, with coal-black hair and olive skin. It’s the Celtic blood, you know. Some say the dark Welsh are descended from Spanish sailors washed ashore after the sinking of the Armada. Malarkey, if you ask me.”

  Fergus had escaped the confines of his basket. He shook himself and waddled over to me. “Feeling better, boy?” I rubbed his ears. “Me, too.”

  He looked up and smiled.

  Vivian’s eyebrows flew up. “Fergus doesn’t usually take to strangers. He’s too civilized to bite, of course, but he gets his point across. I do believe he’s made an exception in your case, my dear.” She gazed at the pudgy animal with the fondness of an indulgent parent. “I spoil him, but then I never had children. We all need someone to love, don’t we? Do you have a husband?”

  The segue took me by surprise. “I’m a widow.”

  “You have your daughter.”

  “And a son. Did Lady Barbara and her husband have children?”

  “A stillborn daughter the year after they were married. Six years later, a son, Lucien.”

  Something in the way she pronounced the name told me there was an unpleasant story there. “You don’t approve of the son?”

  Vivian set her teacup down with a thunk. “I’ve never been a gossip, and I have no intention of starting now.”

  I could have kicked myself. I know the British consider personal questions rude. Now if I’d asked her about the weather, she’d have given me a full ten minutes, including the shipping forecast.

  “I am sorry,” I said, trying to regroup. “I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just that—” I had no idea where that sentence was going. Fortunately, Fergus chose that moment to stand on his short hind legs and hop, begging me to lift him onto my lap. I did, of course, and he rewarded me with a swipe on the nose with his wet pink tongue.

  Vivian eyed us. “If Fergus trusts you, I suppose I can as well.”

  Bless you, Fergus. I stroked his sleek back. He snorted and half-turned in my lap to expose a round, plump belly.

  “Lucien was a bonnie baby.” Vivian picked up her cup and took a thoughtful sip. “He inherited his father’s looks but unfortunately not his character. Having nearly given up hope of children, Lady Barbara was far too indulgent, and Cedru was already … well, already out of the picture, fatherwise.”

  I wanted to ask why Cedru fforde had been “out of the picture, fatherwise,” but Vivian pressed her lips together, and I decided not to pursue the subject. Not yet, anyway.

  “From boyhood, Lucien was allowed to run wild. I assure you, he made the most of it. He was sent down from Cambridge for a series of peccadilloes involving young women. Yet Lady Barbara continued to coddle him. Generous allowance. Allowed to come and go as he pleased. Until the tragedy.”

  “The tragedy?”

  A bell chimed. “That will be your clothing.” Vivian bustled out of the room, leaving me to wonder. She came back with my clothes, warm and neatly folded. “I’ll leave you to change, dear.”

  Placing Fergus on the rug, I pulled on my warm jeans and sweater.

  When Vivian returned, I broached the subject. “You mentioned a tragedy.”

  “Ah, yes.” As I listened, Vivian added tantalizing details to a story I’d first heard on the ill-fated tour.

  “In 1996, Lucien was twenty-one, recently come down from Cambridge and swiftly gaining a reputation in the surrounding villages as a drunkard and womanizer. A young museum curator, Catherine Kerr, arrived at Finchley Hall to arrange a special showing of the Hoard. Catherine was smitten by Lucien’s looks and—it must be said—the money
he threw around like confetti. Lady Barbara wasn’t happy about the alliance but did nothing to thwart him—or to protect the young woman.”

  Fergus eyed my lap. I lifted him again, and he settled in with a satisfied snort.

  “When the girl’s body was found in Blackwater Lake and the inquest returned a verdict of murder, the police naturally looked first to Lucien. No evidence was found against him, and yet the police remained suspicious. Fearing arrest, Lucien fled to Venezuela, where he remains to this day. His mother never speaks of it, except to say he has a good job in the oil industry there and writes every other week. Even so, she sends him money now and again, but they’ve never had so much as a phone conversation since he left England.”

  “Couldn’t she phone him?”

  “Her letters are sent to a tobacco shop in Caracas. Lucien says it’s safer if she doesn’t know where he’s living.”

  Safer? “And he’s never returned to England?” I thought about the dark stranger drinking alone in the Finchley Arms.

  “Not even when his father died.” Vivian pursed her lips. “He left his mother to cope with everything on her own. I tried to help, but frankly I don’t know what she would have done without Mugg.”

  “The butler?”

  “Albert Mugg. He’s served the family since he was a lad. There’s nothing he wouldn’t do for Lady Barbara. The sun rises and sets with her.”

  I admired Lady Barbara, too. She’d lost a husband and a child—two children, if you counted her runaway son—yet she’d managed to hold the estate together, using the assets she had to reward those loyal to her family.

  “Lady Barbara is the finest woman I know,” Vivian said as if reading my thoughts. She gave me a sharp look. “I assume I can rely upon your discretion. Her son can have nothing to do with this latest tragedy.”

  I agreed. Tom wouldn’t need me to tell him about Lucien anyway. There’d be more than one person in Long Barston who remembered the events of 1996 and would, no doubt, be thrilled to share them.

  “My immediate concern is for the exhibit.” Vivian fingered a fine gold necklace that followed the neckline of her wool sweater. “The young woman who died was in charge. I don’t wish to sound uncaring—not at all—but this is the worst thing that could have happened right now.”

  “Will the exhibit be canceled?”

  “That would be difficult. The date has been set for more than a year. People have booked in advance. The exhibit was intended to be the centerpiece of a larger holiday celebration that begins on the Eve of St. Æthelric.”

  “Couldn’t the exhibit be postponed? Surely the villagers wouldn’t blame Lady Barbara.”

  “If it were only the villagers, I’d agree, but the exhibit of the Hoard has been publicized nationally. A television crew from the BBC will be there, along with scholars and collectors from all over Great Britain. This will be the first time the Hoard has ever been displayed in its entirety.” She broke off, and I realized she was struggling against tears.

  I could think of nothing to say that wouldn’t embarrass her.

  Vivian smoothed her tweed skirt. “I’m not exaggerating when I say the future of Finchley Hall is at stake. The exhibit will generate income for the estate—ticket sales, catalogs, souvenirs, refreshments. The truth is, Lady Barbara needs the money.”

  Perhaps the internship program was a moneymaker as well. Christine had paid an administrative fee plus room and board. More than likely, the various organizations that employed the interns—the guildhall, for example—paid for the privilege.

  “This is too distressing to think about.” Vivian’s hand hovered over the teapot. “More tea?” When I declined, she poured herself another cup, adding a splash of milk and two sugars. She sat back and watched Fergus snoring softly in my lap. “Tell us about yourself, Kate. What do you do?”

  The us included Fergus, apparently. His eyes opened, and his short, curly tail beat against my thigh.

  “I’m an antiques dealer and appraiser. I’m here to visit my daughter, but I also hope to do some shopping. English antiques are popular in the States.”

  “You’re an antiques expert?”

  “My parents were the experts. They trained me.”

  “What sort of antiques do you specialize in?”

  “Silver, porcelain, art glass, furniture—mostly from the eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries.”

  “Jewelry?”

  “Certainly. Anything of age and beauty.”

  “Age and beauty.” Vivian’s eyes had taken on a curious gleam. Even Fergus was staring at me with heightened interest.

  Why did I find that disconcerting?

  As I thanked her and shrugged into my down jacket, a thought niggled at the back of mind.

  Vivian had avoided my question about the stranger on the grounds of Finchley Hall.

  Chapter Six

  With no time left to stop at the estate archives, I returned to the Stables to shower and change for the welcome dinner. I chose a slim- fitting dress in stone-colored wool and added a flowered wool scarf—an outfit chosen by my best friend, Charlotte, an ex–department store window dresser. Charlotte considered me her own private “what not to wear” project. Tonight, I had to admit, the dress and scarf would be perfect. Like most old English houses, even those refitted with central heating, Finchley Hall would be chilly.

  I was greeted at the door by Alex Devereux in a black jersey number that managed to cover her from breastbone to midcalf while leaving little to the imagination. “Good evening, Kate. Lady Barbara is pleased you could join us.” Alex took my jacket and laid it across a chair. “Christine is such a sweet girl.”

  Is it my imagination, or did those words just sprout talons?

  The reception hall featured oak linenfold paneling and an early Georgian staircase. The old floorboards creaked as we made our way past the massive formal drawing room on the left, the library on the right, and then down a long gallery to what Alex called the private drawing room.

  “How many rooms in total?” I asked.

  “No idea,” Alex said. “We tell visitors there are fifteen fireplaces and five staircases, including a narrow one connecting the kitchen on the lower level to the roof access.”

  The private drawing room wasn’t small, but in contrast to the formal drawing room, where I and the other members of the tour group had waited to be interviewed by the police, it felt warm and intimate. A fire blazed in the Portland stone fireplace. Beneath a plasterwork frieze badly in need of restoration, coral-pink walls featured portraits—more long-dead Finchleys, I supposed—in a variety of gold-leaf frames. Centered above the fireplace was the portrait Alex Devereux had mentioned. A small brass plate read SUSANNAH FINCHLEY 1608–1638. Dark hair fell in loose curls on either side of a pretty face. She wore a silver satin dress featuring full slashed sleeves and a lace bodice. Her left hand pinched the luminous folds of her skirt. Her right hand rested on a book—evidence of her learning, unusual for the time. On the middle finger of that hand was a gold ring set with an oval red stone encircled by rows of what looked like small pearls.

  I leaned forward for a better look.

  “Welcome to Finchley Hall.” A slim woman of medium height stood to greet me. She was probably ten years younger than Vivian Bunn and still attractive in that English-rose sort of way, but frail. Fine lines etched her pale cheeks. Her shoulder-length hair had turned the warm white color natural blondes tend to go with age. She wore a wool dress of the palest blue—chosen, I imagined, to match her pale-blue eyes. She extended an age-freckled hand. “I’m Barbara Finchley-fforde. You must be Kate Hamilton, the mother of this lovely young woman.”

  Christine sat next to Tristan on one of two high-backed Knole sofas. “Mom, you look terrific. One of Charlotte’s picks, right?” Christine’s smile and the tone of her voice told me everything in her world was right again.

  Tristan had the grace to look sheepish. “She is right, Maman. The color suits you.”

  That mother thi
ng was starting to irritate me.

  On the opposite side of the room, in an alcove with a bay window, sat Prue Goody and Michael Nash, chatting with Alex Devereux and Peter Ingham. At least Alex was chatting. Peter’s head was angled away from the others, his hands in the pockets of his dark trousers. Three couples? If so, Tabitha King would have upset the balance.

  “Thank you for including me tonight,” I told Lady Barbara. “Spending an evening at Finchley Hall is a real pleasure. And thank you for allowing me to stay in the Stables while I’m here.”

  “It’s the young man who canceled you should thank,” she said. “We won’t have more interns now until after Hilary term. Then we’ll be full again. My friend Vivian says I should open some of the bedrooms in the Hall for scholars. Assuming they’d want to stay in an old pile like this. Corridors leading to corridors.”

  “They might get lost.”

  “You’re right.” Lady Barbara laughed. “When I was a child, the new maids would lay trails of corn to find their way back to the servants’ quarters.” She tilted her head. “Christine tells me you’re an antiques dealer. I noticed your interest in the portrait. Lady Susannah was my late husband’s final acquisition, so of course the portrait means a great deal to me.”

  “Final acquisition? I assumed the portrait had been in the family forever.”

  “The painting was sold sometime in the early 1800s—no one knows why. We learned of its existence shortly after our marriage, and my husband contacted the owner in London. She refused to part with it, but my husband instructed his attorney to stay in touch. The lady died six months before my husband’s own death in 1999. Her estate agreed to the sale, and Susannah finally came home.”

  “She certainly adds to the mystique surrounding the Finchley Hoard. I’m looking forward to seeing the Finchley Cross in person.”

  “But I thought you took the tour.” Lady Barbara’s confusion turned to dismay. “Oh, of course. The tour was cut short.” She lowered her voice. “I understand you were among those who found that poor, dear girl, Tabitha. I only wish I’d known how desperate she was. Young people are so passionate these days—not like those of us who grew up in the years following the war. You’re far too young to remember, of course, but we had to be practical, to put our futures ahead of our feelings.”