by Connie Berry
“You aren’t concerned about theft?”
“Of course I am, but what good are these beautiful objects if no one sees them? If we can pull it off, scholars will be able to view the Hoard with their own eyes. That’s why I agreed to produce the catalog. Not everyone who is interested will be able to attend. The Hoard will be studied and written about for years to come. My father and my husband may not have agreed with me—Mugg certainly doesn’t—but the Hoard is my responsibility now.” Her brow furrowed. “I pray I’m not the last Finchley to bear that responsibility.” Her eyes glistened. She was thinking of her son. As if sensing my sympathy, she straightened her spine and raised her chin.
Fidelis, fastu, fortitudo.
Strength is not always physical, I mused, and courage isn’t proven in battle alone.
“When did you make the decision to hold the exhibit?” I asked.
“The thought came first when I learned I was losing my sight. I wanted to see the treasure, all of it at once, and I wanted others to enjoy it as well. A young museum curator, Catherine Kerr, was going to make that happen. Then she was murdered, and I put the idea out of my mind until recently. I knew I needed a curator, but that was impossible without funding. So I contacted the University of East Anglia. They suggested a qualified intern. I advertised. Tabitha was the most qualified applicant.” She sighed deeply.
“Where did Tabitha keep her records?”
A smile lit Lady Barbara’s face. “Does this mean you will take on the job?”
I looked at those pale-blue eyes. How could I refuse? “Of course, but I’ll need Tabitha’s spreadsheets and the drafts of the catalog to identify the objects.”
“I believe she kept everything on the computer. If you have trouble locating the records, Alex could probably help.”
“Count me in. Having a part in the exhibit will be a pleasure.”
“I am pleased.” Lady Barbara traced a finger along the corner of Tabitha’s desk. “Because there’s something else I’d like to ask.” She looked up. “First allow me to show you the Finchley Cross. Then, if you can spare another ten minutes, I’ve asked someone to join us in my sitting room.”
I got Lady Barbara back to Finchley Hall without so much as a stubbed toe. Once in the house she’d lived in all her life, she moved with confidence. I followed her down the long gallery.
The decor in the oak library was pure Victoriana. Besides the books, the walls were decorated with trophy heads. Several glass cases held the anthropomorphic displays of taxidermy, hugely popular at the time. Cigar-smoking squirrels playing poker. Bunnies at a tea party. Tabby kittens playing croquet. I shuddered, thinking of the adorable litter Fiona, my Scottish Fold cat, had produced one year.
I wasn’t interested in taxidermy. Near the carved wood fireplace, another glass cabinet held the object I’d come to see.
The Finchley Cross.
It was magnificent. The arms of the cross were equal in length and flared. Tiny slices of garnet set in gold-wire frames created an intricate design. My symptoms, slowly ebbing since the archives building, built to an alarming new crescendo. My throat tightened. My heart pounded against my rib cage. Was I having a heart attack?
A thought began to unfold, the pleats and tessellations filling my brain. I reminded myself to breathe as emotions distilled into words.
Anguish, grief, emptiness. Loss. Yes—that was it.
A great loss.
* * *
Ten minutes later Lady Barbara ushered me, still reeling, into her private sitting room. Oh, I’d had these experiences before—usually no more than a vague sense of joy or sadness or fear, as if the emotional atmosphere in which an object existed had seeped into the joints and crevices along with the dust and grime. But every once in a while these impressions coalesced into something more specific—and unsettling.
I’ve always blamed my notoriously overactive imagination. Describe a medical issue, and I’m sure to develop the symptoms. Arrive ten minutes late, and I’m picturing smashed cars and sirens. Even so, I’ve never been able to explain why my brain does these things. Of course, lots of things in life remain unexplained. Like why you always think of the perfect retort when it’s too late. Or why teenagers walk around staring at their phones but never actually answer them.
I put these conundrums out of my mind and focused on my surroundings.
The walls of Lady Barbara’s sitting room were papered in a vintage design of urns and flowers. Candles flickered on a white marble mantelpiece around which three armchairs had been arranged.
In one of those chairs sat Vivian Bunn, looking enigmatic. “I told Lady Barbara about Fergus and your daring rescue,” she said, as if preparing me for further revelations.
“Above and beyond, I’d say.” Lady Barbara took the chair in the middle, indicating I should take the third. “We may have more than one reason to be grateful to you.”
The atmosphere in the room felt distinctly odd. Two pairs of elderly eyes observed me with what looked suspiciously like guilt.
“There’s something more you want me to do?”
The eyes blinked.
“Perhaps,” Vivian said.
“If you agree,” Lady Barbara added.
The room fell silent.
Vivian scooted forward in her chair. “You mentioned a stranger on the estate. You said the dead girl, Tabitha King, saw him.”
“Yes. One of the interns told me—Michael Nash. He said Tabitha told Mr. Mugg.”
“Just Mugg, dear,” Lady Barbara said. “He didn’t mention it, but then he will shield me from all things unpleasant. In any case, the park is open to the public. Tabitha hadn’t been here long enough to distinguish a stranger from a villager. But that’s not the point.” She fingered her pearls and looked at Vivian.
“The point is,” Vivian said, picking up the thread, “Tabitha isn’t the only one who’s seen a stranger. I hear things in the village.”
“What things?” If Briony Peacock was the source of the gossip, I already knew.
“He’s male, obviously,” Vivian said. “Fiftyish, olive skin, black hair going gray at the temples, dark eyes, medium height and weight. Apparently he wears a funny kind of cap pulled low over his face, as if to disguise his identity.”
“Has he done anything illegal?” I asked, echoing Tom.
Vivian put up her hand. I was getting ahead of the story. “After you left my cottage this afternoon, I walked to the village shop to post a letter. The locals believe the stranger is responsible for Tabitha’s death.”
“On what evidence?”
“The similarity to another death, twenty-three years ago.”
“Catherine Kerr,” I said, understanding for the first time. “The young woman from the Museum of Suffolk History.”
Vivian and Lady Barbara nodded.
“They think the person who killed Catherine Kerr also killed Tabitha? But why?”
“At the time,” Lady Barbara said, “the murderer was thought to be … mentally deranged.” Her pale-blue eyes welled up.
Vivian reached out a comforting hand. “The villagers want someone to blame.”
The lamp on the table near Lady Barbara flickered and went out. “Oh, fudge,” she said. “That’s been happening a lot lately. I’ll have to get Mugg to take a gander at the fuse.”
I pictured an ancient fuse box plugged with copper pennies. If Lady Barbara did make a profit on the Hoard exhibit, I hoped she’d solve the electrical issues before the cosmetic ones.
“Sometimes I feel quite hopeless,” Lady Barbara continued. “When the parents of the interns hear there’s been a murder, they’ll take their children home. Not that I blame them, but we depend financially on the internship program.”
“What can I do about it?”
“Investigate. Look into the rumors. Sort things out.” Lady Barbara pulled her cardigan closer around her thin body. “Perhaps you can locate the stranger, find out why he’s come.”
“But I’m a stranger,
too. Why would this man—or the villagers—talk to me? Besides, what makes you think I’d know where to begin?”
“We Googled you,” Vivian said.
This time the two sets of eyes looked triumphant.
“I see.” I pictured Vivian and Lady Barbara reading Donald Preston’s article with my photograph and that ridiculous headline: JACKSON FALLS’ OWN MISS MARPLE.
“We’d do it ourselves,” Vivian said, “except people will assume we’re biased.”
“Why would they assume that?”
“Because”—Lady Barbara’s chin trembled—“the villagers believe the dark stranger is my son, Lucien. They say he’s returned to England and has killed another young woman.”
* * *
I heard the yelling before I opened the door of the Stables.
Christine and Alex had squared off near the kitchen island. Prue and Michael looked like spectators at a traffic accident, wanting to help but not sure what to do.
“You’re a horrible person.” Christine’s clenched hands shook with rage.
“Grow up, little girl.” Alex hiked her small handbag over her shoulder and turned to go.
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
Alex turned back. “I don’t care what you do. I’m going to bed. Oh, look—here’s your mummy. She can tuck you in.”
“What?” Christine picked up a ceramic mug and hurled it. Lucky for Alex, the mug missed her and hit the wall, shattering into a thousand pieces.
Alex spun around. “If you ever do that again, you’re gone, little girl.” Her eyes were slits, her mouth a tight line.
Prue and Michael stared.
Christine burst into tears.
“What’s going on?” I said. “Where’s Tristan?”
“Dead, for all I care.” Christine swiped at her eyes. “Don’t mention his name to me again—ever. Any of you.” She turned on her heel and marched out of the room.
My throat closed. Hearing secondhand about Christine’s disastrous relationships was one thing; watching the train wreck in real time was another.
Later, I lay in bed and stared into the darkness. Every cell in my body ached for my little girl. I thought of her as a lean, wiry infant. She’d cried at the drop of a hat—when the temperature wasn’t precisely to her liking, when something she wanted was denied or delayed. Sometimes she screamed for no apparent reason, and when I’d tried to comfort her, her hot little body would stiffen in rage. Now, as a young woman, Christine was bright, passionate, romantic, impulsive, loyal. She could also be secretive, irrational, and—when she’d been hurt—impossible to console.
Trying to sleep was hopeless. Switching on my bedside lamp, I grabbed my laptop, logged on to the wireless network, and tapped out an email to my mother. I’d phoned her to let her know I’d arrived. Now there was more to tell, but I didn’t think I could do it without crying. So I wrote it down.
For the second time in as many months, my mother had driven to Ohio from her retirement community in the Kettle Moraine country of southern Wisconsin to keep my antiques shop open while I gallivanted off to the UK. I couldn’t have asked for anyone more qualified. For years she and my father had operated an antiques business, earning a national reputation not only for the quality of their stock but also for my mother’s meticulous research.
I’LL CALL SOON. LOVE YOU. I pushed send and closed the laptop.
I pictured my mother’s face as she read my email. I’d told her about the death of Tabitha King and the village rumors. The dishy vicar. The Hoard exhibit dilemma. Christine’s latest romantic fiasco. I’d mentioned Tom Mallory, of course, but I’d downplayed our … our what? Friendship? Relationship? Hopeless cause?
My mother knew me too well to be taken in by labels. She was a romantic like her granddaughter. But unlike Christine, Linnea Larsen viewed life with a clear eye. If she preferred the rosy version of things and clung to optimism until all reasonable hope was lost, it was a choice, not an illusion. When events took an unfortunate turn, she wasted no time in regrets. She knew as well as I did that a romance between a widow from Jackson Falls, Ohio, and a detective inspector from Suffolk, England, had little chance of going anywhere.
At least I assumed she knew it.
I switched off the lamp.
What I hadn’t downplayed in my email were the tensions among the interns and the pressures Lady Barbara faced. Emotional pressures. Financial pressures.
I pictured Finchley Hall, dressed in all its Christmas finery, teetering on the brink of disaster.
Chapter Eight
Monday, December 7th
I made it to the archives building the next morning by eight thirty. The air was crisp. A light frost blanketed the lawn. I let myself in with the key Lady Barbara had given me. From somewhere above, a chair scraped on wood. Christine was already at work.
Had Tristan returned to the Stables last night filled with remorse? Had he gone down on one knee and vowed he’d never again fall for Alex’s undeniable charms? Had Christine bought it? I’d know the minute I saw her. I waffled momentarily, wondering if I should run up to find out or respect her privacy. I decided to respect her privacy. At least that’s what I told myself.
I turned on Tabitha’s computer and checked the document list for her records. There they were, in a file helpfully called THE FINCHLEY HOARD. I opened a document named INVENTORY OCTOBER 2019 and did a mental high five. The spreadsheet listed individual objects, 189 in all, each given a number and a clear description. A small number of objects, no more than twenty, had already been placed in the exhibit. The rest was up to me, but Tabitha had made things easy. The numbers on the inventory list would correspond to the slips of paper in the exhibit hall. Some items included a link to photographs—probably the ones taken for the catalog.
My heart lifted. I could pull this off for Lady Barbara. I really could.
I opened the massive safe, using the key and the number code I’d committed to memory.
Unlike the treasures of Sutton Hoo, two Anglo-Saxon burial mounds dating from the sixth and early seventh centuries, the Finchley Hoard was a collection of objects—coins, jewelry, religious items, household vessels—spanning the late Anglo-Saxon period to the middle of the sixteenth century, a period of some seven hundred years.
The Finchley treasure, lost in a single night and recovered two hundred fifty years later. The fact that the collection was still intact attested to two things—the original wealth of the Finchley estate, with its vast lands and tenants, and the notorious Finchley pride. With all her financial woes, Lady Barbara had never considered selling a single item.
By eleven thirty I’d familiarized myself with Tabitha’s system, making comparisons between the descriptions in the database and the items arranged in the safe. I’d also begun to get a feel for the arrangement of items in the exhibit hall. That had required frequent trips up and down the stairs, comparing the numbered slips of paper with the descriptions on the database on the computer. What I needed was a printout.
I pressed print and heard the machine behind me come to life. Nothing happened. Then a message flashed on the screen: OUT OF PAPER.
Drat. Where would Tabitha keep printer paper?
The counter behind me held the printer and an electric kettle with a carton of Yorkshire Gold tea bags and a bowl of sugar packets. I opened the door of a closet. Inside, a heavy wool cardigan hung over a small portable refrigerator. In the refrigerator I found a carton of low-fat milk and a package of water biscuits. Tabitha had probably been battling morning sickness. I pictured the wan face in the lake and felt sick myself. Why would someone want to hurt Tabitha? Because she was pregnant? Because she knew something? Because she was a threat to someone?
What a wicked, pointless waste of life.
After a few more minutes of searching, I found a packet of computer paper in one of the desk drawers. When I pulled it out, I spotted a sheaf of papers held together with a paper clip. Tabitha had already printed out the inventory, and what’s more
, she’d made a number of remarks in a tiny, precise hand. Most of her notations involved the exhibit plan, referencing cabinets and plinths. I flipped through the pages, knowing that as I worked through the items myself, I would catch the overall vision—Tabitha’s vision. We should honor her in some way, I thought, and felt sure Lady Barbara would agree.
I turned to the final page of Tabitha’s inventory. In the half sheet left blank, she’d made a list—eleven items, written by hand in letters so small I practically had to squint to make them out:
Small gold and silver chalice
Cloisonné and garnet arm cuff
Gold collar with roped edging
Carved emerald pendant
Gold wirework pectoral cross set with amethysts
Necklace of amber beads
Silver platter with mythical figures
Necklace of pearl and carnelian
Bronze and silver clasp
Hammered silver and gilt communion vessel
Chased silver and filigree Gospel cover
Were these items that needed to be photographed? Objects in need of restoration? None were numbered like the other Hoard objects, and more to the point, none appeared to be alternate descriptions of items already listed. I made a mental note to ask Lady Barbara about them.
Near the bottom of the page, Tabitha had penciled a note: PHOTO FINISH, 14 SHEEP STREET, SAT. I opened a web browser and typed in the address. Photo Finish was a printing company—that was encouraging. The hours on Monday were ten AM to noon and two PM to four thirty.
I looked at my watch. Twelve fifteen. The shop would reopen at two.
Switching off the computer, I relocked the safe, grabbed my handbag and jacket, and ran up the two flights of stairs. I had to face her sometime. “Christine? Have you had lunch?”
No answer.
The landing led to a hallway with three doors. The first was open. I stuck my head in, finding the office empty. Two tall windows looked out over the park. Cabinets painted the color of old linen lined the room. On the soffit above each cabinet, letters of the alphabet had been stenciled—a Victorian filing system. A large square table in the center of the room held piles of rust-brown file folders and old, black fabric–covered account books. I wandered in. On the desk, a half-full mug of coffee and a pot of Christine’s favorite lip gloss told me I’d just missed her.