by Connie Berry
I tried not to stare at her. Had Vivian been right about the love match with Cedru fforde, or had Lady Barbara made the practical choice of marrying money after all?
“What happened to Lady Susannah’s ring?”
“Ah, the blood-red ruby. Sometime in the past, the ring disappeared. My father feared it had been sold—perhaps along with the portrait, although the lady in London didn’t own it. The Finchleys of that generation were more interested in cash than family heritage. My father made me promise never to sell any of the remaining pieces, and I never shall.”
We looked at the portrait of Lady Susannah.
“The mystery of the blood-red ring,” I said. “Everyone loves a mystery.”
“Tabitha planned to move the portrait to the exhibit hall on the nineteenth, so visitors could enjoy a glimpse of the ring.” Lady Barbara’s hand went to the double strand of pearls around her neck, and I noticed that the elbow of her pale-blue dress had worn thin. “Now that Tabitha’s gone, I’m not certain we can go ahead. Only how can we not, at this late date?”
“How many visitors do you expect?”
“Three or four hundred, I imagine. More than a hundred fifty have already bought timed-entrance tickets.” Lady Barbara shook her head as if to clear it. “We may be forced to refund the money.”
“That would be unfortunate.”
I could see what Vivian had meant about the importance of the exhibit to the future of Finchley Hall. If four hundred visitors paid fifteen or twenty pounds apiece—plus extra for the convenience of not standing in line, and possibly more for the right to take photographs—Lady Barbara could reupholster those green velvet serpentine sofas and restore the plaster frieze. With the BBC filming rights, she could make a dent in some of the estate’s more basic problems.
“How will the filming work?” I asked. “Won’t the crew get in the way of the visitors?”
“Tabitha worked through all that. She sent the producers some preliminary information about the Hoard to help them develop their script. They asked to interview me—no more than ten minutes, I’m told. Thankfully that will happen at a later date, as will a filming session with some of the more noteworthy artifacts. They’ll arrive early on Saturday to get a few background shots of Finchley Hall. Then they’ll film the crowds waiting to enter the archives. Everything else will be done later. The half-hour documentary will be narrated by a well-known antiques expert and will air on BBC Four in spring.”
“Have you spoken to the police about the exhibit? I mean, all those people tramping around a crime scene.”
“That nice detective inspector said we could go ahead. That’s not the problem. The problem is the exhibit itself. Tabitha planned it out in advance, but her work was by no means complete.” Lady Barbara made a helpless gesture. “Who could possibly step in at this late date?”
“If I can be of help, let me know. My daughter begins work in the archives tomorrow. I’ll have time on my hands.”
Lady Barbara’s pale face turned pink. “My goodness. That’s generous. Let me think about it, will you? I’ll let you know.”
A sphinxlike Mugg entered the parlor with a tray of sherry in tulip-shaped glasses. He served Lady Barbara first, and I noticed him subtly guide her hand toward one of the sherry glasses. Was her vision poor?
I wandered to the fireplace, hoping to get a closer look at Lady Susannah’s ring. The resins in the old varnish had darkened the image, but even in its present condition, I could make out a design on the deep-red central stone—a griffin rampant. The ruby must have been an intaglio, incised with the image on the Finchley crest.
Mugg offered the tray to me. Then to Christine and Tristan.
Peter Ingham had joined Lady Barbara on the other Knole sofa. Their conversation, from the snatches I heard, seemed to concern the Elizabethan Garden.
Christine joined me in front of the fireplace. “What do you think of Finchley Hall?”
“The place is a treasure,” I said, “but to keep a house like this going, Lady Barbara needs money. Lots of it.”
“That’s why she sponsors interns. It’s no secret. In the case of Peter Ingham, she’s paid for housing him and gets her garden restored at the same time.”
“And in your case, gets her archives organized. What about Alex?”
“Alex was an intern last year. She got her degree in international hospitality and tourism, and now she’s a full-time employee. She runs the internship program, supervises the gift shop and the weekly tour groups, and generally lords it over the rest of us.”
“And Prue Goody?”
“Prue’s here till spring, working at the Anglo-Saxon Living History Museum near Saxby St. Clare. She’s from the University of Leeds.”
“What do you know about the intern who backed out—the one who would have had my room?”
“Not much. His name was Adam.”
“What was his university?”
“I never heard. Why?”
“Just curious. I’m wondering why he decided not to come.” It wasn’t the whole truth, but it was as much as I could say.
Christine shot me a suspicious look. “What aren’t you telling me?”
I shook my head. “It’s just odd that he backed out. You know I don’t like mysteries.”
“There’s nothing mysterious about it. He decided not to come.”
“You’re right.” I gave her what I hoped was a conciliatory smile. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop by the archives today. I decided to walk by the lake and—”
As I was telling her about Vivian Bunn and Fergus, I noticed Alex drift behind the Knole sofa. With a glance at Peter, she trailed her hand along Tristan’s shoulders. Then she bent her head and whispered something in his ear. His eyes widened.
“What’s wrong?” Christine had seen the surprise on my face.
“Tristan needs you.”
It was the truth.
Something told me Tristan was one moth about to get his wings singed.
* * *
Like the rest of the house, the dining room at Finchley Hall was an amalgamation of periods and styles. The ceiling beams were Elizabethan, the oak paneling Georgian, but the light parquet floors and muted paintwork belonged to the Edwardian era. Over the wide rectangular table, a gaslight chandelier had been electrified. The frayed cord near the canopy told me repairs were long overdue.
Lady Barbara sat at the head of the table with Peter Ingham at the foot. I sat between Peter and Christine with Tristan on Lady Barbara’s right. Across the table sat Alex, Michael Nash, and Prue Goody.
Lady Barbara tapped her fork on her water glass. “I wish to extend a warm welcome to our new interns, Christine, Tristan, and Michael. We are all shocked and saddened by the death of Tabitha King. I feel a certain responsibility toward the interns and want you to know that if you have any concerns or should ever simply need to talk, my door is always open. I am not your parent, but I hope you will consider me a friend, should you ever need one.
“Finchley Hall is a place where past and present meet. Each of you, in your own way, will contribute to the continuing life of the estate. I’m sure we all hope the preparations for the Hoard exhibit can be completed on time. I’d like to thank you for your concern, as well as for your part in the festivities planned for the Eve of St. Æthelric. That certainly will go ahead. If you have questions about your role, ask Ms. Devereux.” She looked at me. “I hope you will be my guest that evening, Kate—may I call you Kate? And now”—she raised her water glass—“I trust you will all enjoy tonight’s dinner.”
The interns clapped appreciatively.
Mugg served the meal with the aid of the blonde maid who’d helped him the day Tabitha King’s body was found. I hadn’t noticed then, but her black uniform hung on her frame. Maybe she’d lost weight. More likely the uniform had once belonged to someone else. It certainly wasn’t new. As she bent to serve Peter, I noticed a neatly repaired tear in the pocket. Once we started eating, she disappeared. Mugg remaine
d, hovering protectively behind Lady Barbara.
The dinner, if not gourmet, was well cooked—roast beef with Yorkshire pudding and all the trimmings. All the interns had seconds, except Peter, who appeared out of sorts. I tried to engage him in conversation. He was polite but made it clear he was in no mood for small talk. Alex, at the other end of the table, frequently glanced his way. Remembering their interaction at the Finchley Arms, I wondered about that history between them.
After dessert and coffee, Lady Barbara folded her napkin. “There’s brandy in the drawing room for those who would like it. Please make yourself at home. Mugg, convey my compliments to cook.”
“It was a lovely dinner,” I said. “You’re lucky to have such an excellent cook.”
“Mrs. Rumple is a wonder. She came to Finchley Hall soon after Cedru and I were married. What dinner parties we had in those days.”
Goodness. How old was that cook?
Lady Barbara bade us good night.
The interns headed for the Finchley Arms. I didn’t join them. Jet lag and my unplanned polar-bear plunge in Blackwater Lake had taken a toll. I was looking forward to an early night.
“Kate.” I was surprised to see Lady Barbara lurking in the long hall. “You offered to help with the Hoard exhibit. Will you let me show you what’s been accomplished so far? It’s only fair you see what you’re in for. Then you can decide.”
The comforts of my cozy duvet vied with my curiosity about the Hoard. The Hoard won. “I’d love to see it.”
“Grand. Mugg”—the butler must have been lurking with her—“fetch my coat. Mrs. Hamilton’s coat is …” She looked at me.
“On the chair in the entrance hall.”
“Of course, madam,” Mugg said. “But I should accompany you. The way is dark.”
“No need. Mrs. Hamilton will lend me her arm, won’t you, Kate?”
“Very good, madam.” Mugg backed out of the room. None too pleased. He shot me a look that said bring her back in one piece or you’ll answer to me.
Lady Barbara reached for my arm.
In the light of the mirrored wall sconce, her pale-blue irises looked opaque.
Chapter Seven
“The loss of vision is progressive.” Lady Barbara leaned on my arm as we walked through the ill-lit courtyard toward the estate archives building. I kept my eyes peeled. If she so much as scuffed a shoe, Mugg would never forgive me.
“The diagnosis,” she said, “is corneal dystrophy, a genetic condition common in the Finchley family. I’ll never go completely blind, thank goodness, but each year means an increased loss of freedom. I’m safe enough in my home, but driving is no longer possible, nor even walking alone in the park. I miss that very much, Kate.”
“I’m sure you do. The park is lovely.”
She smiled. “My consolation will be the Elizabethan Garden. The young man, Peter Ingham, takes great pains to include me in the decisions. I’ve taken an interest in the plant selections. Even if I won’t be able to fully appreciate the forms and colors, I will enjoy the delicious scents.”
We arrived at the archives building, a solid Palladian structure with stone columns and shallow steps. Lady Barbara pulled a set of old-fashioned skeleton keys from the pocket of her coat. “I told Mugg you would get me here safely.”
“I’m not sure he believed you.”
“He never does.” Her laugh was as light and silvery as the sliver of moon above our heads. “Mugg can be overly solicitous, but I don’t know what I would do without him.”
I held her arm as we ascended three steps to the entrance.
“Mugg has been with you a long time?”
“Donkey’s years.” She laughed. “He came as a boy of fourteen—straight off the farm, although you’d never know it now. He can be quite a snob. I was only a girl myself then.” She inserted one of the keys in a large lock and turned it. The door swung open, and she reached for the lights.
The main floor of the archives building had been converted into an exhibit space.
“We had the old wood floor stripped and the walls painted museum white.” Lady Barbara slid out of her coat and draped it over her arm. “The display cases were made for us in a workshop in Essex. The price was surprisingly reasonable. Alex will set up a small gift shop in that corner, offering themed items.” She pointed toward an L-shaped area to the immediate right of the door. “Years ago, my husband produced colored postcards of some of the Hoard items, but he never got around to doing anything with them. Alex thought we could sell them now—a brilliant idea, don’t you think? My biggest concern is a catalog we’ve committed to produce. We spent money in advance, expecting a profit. The problem is I don’t know if the catalogs will be ready in time or even what printer Tabitha used.”
“You could always take orders and mail the catalogs out later.” I glanced around the room, finding the majority of the display cases empty. I hoped my offer to help hadn’t given Lady Barbara false hope.
“We need the money, you see,” she said. “Repairs on a house like Finchley Hall can’t be delayed forever. Right now we’ve got rain coming into the east wing. A number of the bathrooms are unusable, and the electrics need work. The staff is too large—I know that—but I won’t dismiss those who’ve been loyal to this family for years. Not without a pension and a place to live. My father would turn over in his grave.”
“It looks like Tabitha made a great start.” I was trying to be encouraging, and it was true. The exhibit space was clean, spare, and cleverly arranged. The display cases, while attractive, had been constructed of relatively inexpensive materials—white laminate and clear Plexiglas. Cabinets lined three walls of the room. One wall cabinet appeared complete, the clear shelves displaying early pewter plates and tankards, each with an explanatory card. In the center of the room, a number of freestanding plinths would presumably hold larger, more important items encased in Plexiglas cubes. I was encouraged to see numbered slips of paper in the empty display cases and plinths. Assuming the numbers corresponded with some sort of listing, all I’d have to do was find the listing and follow the plan. Paint-by-numbers.
I hadn’t noticed before, but a plinth near the rear wall held a bronze-and-silver chalice with splayed feet. As I moved closer, my appraiser brain kicked in.
Early medieval. Near-perfect condition.
My breath caught. Blood rushed to my cheeks. My fingertips tingled.
I knew the symptoms. I’d had them from childhood in the presence of an object of great age and beauty. My father, who’d taught me about antiques, had called me a divvy, an antique whisperer, drawn to the single treasure in a roomful of junk. I’d never told him about the physical manifestations. I’d never told anyone—not my mother, not even Bill. How could I explain it when I didn’t understand it myself?
I rolled my shoulders and took a deep breath.
The card read 142. BRONZE AND SILVER ANGLO-SAXON CHALICE, CA. AD 800.
“Where are the rest of the treasures kept?” I asked. “Security must be an issue.”
“Of course.” Lady Barbara was peering at the chalice, and I wondered how much of the detail she could actually see. “The news of the rediscovery of the Hoard, and the unfortunate death of the man who found it, made the front page of The Times in 1818. Even so, other than Lady Susannah, the Finchleys have never been robbed—a miracle, really. But Cedru was no fool. After we married, he installed an alarm and purchased a jeweler’s safe. Come. I’ll show you.”
In the rear corner of the room, a flight of stairs led to a lower level. We descended into a large room—an office, furnished with a desk, several file cabinets, a corkboard covered with notes, and a computer.
“The lower level of the archives building is reserved for the Hoard,” she said. “Your daughter, Christine, will be working on the upper floor, where the family papers are kept.”
A side room off the office was almost entirely taken up by an enormous cast-iron safe, at least six feet high and nearly as wide. Lady Barbara p
roduced a key. “This is for the overlock,” she said, turning the key and returning it to her pocket. “Since my vision is poor, I’ll need you to enter a sequence of numbers in the combination lock.” She spoke the instructions, which involved a series of five numbers with turns of the dial alternately to the right and left.
When I stopped on the final number, something clicked.
“Now turn the wheel.”
The nickel-plated ship’s wheel operated a system of steel rods, which retracted to free the heavy door. Inside the vault I saw two banks of drawers over open shelves. My eyes popped. The shelves held a dazzling array of artifacts of silver, gold, and bronze. Some were set with precious or semiprecious stones. Others were beautifully chased or inlaid with various materials.
No wonder scholars were excited about the exhibit. If Lady Barbara was telling the truth, these wonderful things hadn’t been seen by more than a handful of people since the sixteenth century.
My physical symptoms simmered and bubbled, producing a sense of exhilaration and what I can only describe as a buzz.
Who needs alcohol when you have antiques?
“The safe is burglar- and fireproof.” Lady Barbara opened one of the middle drawers. Felt-lined compartments held small objects, mostly jewelry. “Thieves would need a forklift and a flatbed lorry to shift this. I think we’d notice. In any event, we have a security camera inside, plus CCTV cameras outside. Any untoward activity would be recorded.” She cocked her head. “If you take this on, Kate, you’ll need the key and the latest combination. We change the code frequently. Mugg insists on it.”
“Very wise.”
“Mugg isn’t in favor of the exhibit, if you haven’t guessed. He never has been. He says—and I can hardly blame him—that displaying the treasures will encourage burglars. But I see things differently.”