A Legacy of Murder

by Connie Berry

  I tried her cell phone, reaching her on the third ring.

  “Yes?” Short. Impatient.

  “It’s me. I’m in your office. I thought we might walk to the village for lunch.”

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Are you—” I was about to say all right but caught myself in time. “—free later?”

  “Why? So you can sort me out?”

  “I thought you might want to talk.”

  A deep breath. “Look, I appreciate what you’re trying to do, Mom. Believe me, I’m fine. Okay? I’ll call you later. Maybe we can do something tonight.”

  “I’m on my way back to the Stables. Are you there?”

  “No, I’m not.” Another silence. “Promise me you won’t talk to Tristan. Or Alex.”

  “Never occurred to me,” I lied. “See you tonight.”

  I stood in Christine’s office, watching dust motes float on the air. I imagined leaving her one of the encouraging notes I used to stick in her lunchbox when she was in elementary school.

  DON’T WORRY ABOUT THE MATH TEST. YOU KNOW THE MATERIAL. I LOVE YOU.

  SEE YOU AFTER SCHOOL. I’VE GOT A SURPRISE! I LOVE YOU.

  The surprise that time was the tiny marmalade Scottish Fold kitten I’d rescued from a farm near our house in Jackson Falls. We named her Fiona, and she was currently living the life of Riley with my mother, who insisted on taking her to the antiques shop every day.

  What would I write to Christine now? DON’T WORRY ABOUT TRISTAN. HE’S NOT WORTH IT. I LOVE YOU. Or maybe, DON’T GIVE ALEX THE SATISFACTION OF KNOWING YOU’RE HURT. I LOVE YOU.

  True but useless.

  Light slanting through the window fell on Christine’s desk. A fresh December calendar in a green leather frame was blank. Except for the thirteenth, the Eve of St. Æthelric.

  REENACTMENT OF PEASANTS’ REVOLT, Christine had written. Followed by a heart.

  With a dagger through it.

  Chapter Nine

  With only bagels and granola in my larder, I decided to treat myself to a proper lunch in the village. The walk through Finchley Park into Long Barston was well marked. Passing Blackwater Lake, I waved to Vivian and Fergus. The dog seemed to have recovered from his ordeal, but had he learned his lesson? Ducks honked and took flight, their wings brushing the surface of the water. He strained against his collar.

  You’re on your own this time, boy.

  In Long Barston, the path ended in the churchyard of St. Æthelric’s. I headed for the Three Magpies—first to check out their food (it had to be better than the Finchley Arms) but also to ask about the mysterious stranger who might or might not have booked one of their guest rooms. Even Miss Marple had to start somewhere.

  The Three Magpies stood on Sheep Street, just around the corner from the Finchley Arms. The exterior was cream-painted brick with white window frames and a dark-blue door. The steep roof, no doubt once thatched, was covered with terra-cotta tiles. Window boxes overflowed with boughs of evergreen, huge pinecones, and sprays of red berries.

  A youngish woman, late thirties maybe, crouched on the sidewalk near a freestanding menu board. “Welcome to the Three Magpies,” she said, standing. “I’m Jayne Collier.” She brushed off her apron and hiked up the sleeves on her heavy wool cardigan. “Lunch for one?”

  She was slim and pretty with a long golden-brown braid trailing over one shoulder. She’d been writing on the menu board with a piece of colored chalk. Today’s soup was carrot and ginger. The lunch special was herb-roasted pork fillet on a bed of roasted vegetables. Promising.

  I followed Jayne through the blue door. Inside, under a low-beamed ceiling, a curved bar faced a huge fireplace that hinted at the building’s age. Banquettes were tucked under the windows and along the walls. Plain wood tables and chairs. No fake horse brasses. And the best part—no gaming machines.

  Beyond the bar, a separate dining room was paneled in sage green, the walls hung with coach lanterns and framed cartoons—from the pages of Punch, I guessed, the defunct British magazine famous for political satire.

  I was the only patron.

  “Where will it be?” Jayne spread her arms. “You have the pick of the tables.”

  I chose a banquette near the fireplace. Jayne handed me a hand-printed menu card, filled my water glass, and set down a pot of marinated olives before disappearing into the kitchen.

  The lunch menu featured the soup of the day, a small selection of inventive-sounding salads and sandwiches, and the pork fillet, served with carrots and courgettes. Along the bottom of the card, I read THE THREE MAGPIES, LONG BARSTON. PROPRIETORS, JAYNE AND GAVIN COLLIER. I pictured the dried-out chicken tenders at the Finchley Arms. Why wasn’t the Three Magpies jammed with customers?

  Jayne appeared with an order pad. “Any questions, or are you ready to order?”

  “It all sounds wonderful. I think I’ll try the soup and the green goddess salad.”

  “Good choice. Something to drink—tea, coffee? Glass of wine, perhaps?”

  “Water for now.”

  After leaving to put in my order, Jayne returned and leaned against the bar. “You’re not from around here. Passing through?”

  I introduced myself and explained about my daughter and the internship at Finchley Hall.

  Her expression darkened. “Where that poor young woman died. It’s just awful.”

  I agreed that it was.

  “She was here not long ago—for lunch with the vicar.”

  “Tabitha was here with the … vicar?” I almost said dishy. “A date?”

  She frowned. “Oh, goodness, I don’t think so. I got the impression he was counseling her. She was tearful.”

  Hmm. I was going to have to meet this vicar. “I’m surprised the village isn’t thick with reporters.”

  “Just wait. They’re all in Lowestoft this morning. One of the National Trust properties was burglarized. It was all over the news. The thieves got away with an ivory figurine. Really old, they said. Chinese. Tiny thing—about six inches high.”

  “A break-in?”

  “That’s the incredible part. They think the figurine was taken during regular open hours. On one of the tours, apparently.”

  Outside the window, a Sky News van rolled past.

  “You’ll have most of the reporters in here for a meal anyway.”

  “Always a silver lining,” Jayne said. “We can’t get the locals to give us a try.”

  “Why is that, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “We’re new in Long Barston—if you call three years new.” She slipped her hands in the pockets of her long cardigan and wrapped it round her slim frame. “In Long Barston there are locals and there are newcomers. To qualify as a local, you practically have to trace your family roots in Suffolk back to the Domesday Book.” She shook her head. “I’m exaggerating, but it’s all about loyalty. Gav and I are Londoners. The Peacocks—they own the Finchley Arms—have lived in this village for generations. The cemetery is stuffed with them, no pun intended.” She shook her head. “Sorry. I’m boring you with all this.”

  “Not at all. I’d like to hear more. Do you have time to talk?”

  She laughed. “I could say I’m run off my feet, but it isn’t true. Not at lunchtime, anyway. We do all right in the evenings. Frankly, that’s what keeps us afloat. People come for dinner from as far away as Sudbury. It’s the locals who won’t warm to us, and it’s the local trade we need—regulars, folks who come to see us as a village gathering place. The Arms has the monopoly on that. Always has, always will, I guess.”

  “How did a couple from London end up owning a pub in Long Barston?”

  “Gav and I worked at the Anchor & Hope in Southwark. Gavin was the sous chef. I was assistant manager. The work was exciting, the pay was good, but Gavin has his own ideas about food. So when he inherited money from his grandparents, we looked to buy a place of our own. We found the Three Magpies. The original pub closed after the Second World War, and the building was turned into an el
ectrical repair shop. That closed, too, and the building was up for sale. We bought it, invested money in restoration. Gav designed a simple menu based on locally sourced meat and veg. We thought a real gastropub in the village would be welcome.”

  “I understand you have rooms as well.”

  “Four king doubles and two twins. All en suite.”

  That was my opening. “Do you have anyone staying at the moment?”

  “Not at present, no.”

  “I’m told there’s a visitor in town—Spanish, maybe.”

  Jayne rolled her eyes. “You’re talking about the ‘mysterious stranger.’” She made air quotes. “It’s all over the village. Everyone says he killed that poor girl. And no, he isn’t staying with us. Never has, thank goodness. That’s all we’d need.”

  “Have you seen him?”

  “Gav did, briefly. Near the Hall.”

  “Finchley Hall?”

  “We sell produce to the cook there when we have more than we need.” She turned and called back toward the kitchen, “Gav, can you come out here for a minute. Question for you.”

  A tall man in a white chef’s tunic and toque popped his head through the swinging door near the end of the bar.

  “This is Kate Hamilton,” Jayne said. “Her daughter’s one of the new interns at the Hall. She’d like to know about the man you saw there the other day.”

  Gavin pulled off his toque. His dark hair reminded me of Tristan’s—short on the sides with a brushed-back mop on top. “Caught a glimpse is all.” I recognized a London accent.

  “Where exactly did you see him?”

  “Toward the back of the ’ouse, close to the brick wall. That’s where I go—the kitchen. I didn’t see him properly, you understand—just a dark shape slipping through the door to the park. Wouldn’t’ve thought more about it, only Mags over t’ village shop said everyone’s gabbing ’bout a mysterious stranger.”

  “Would you recognize him again?”

  “Doubt it.” He glanced at his watch. “Gotta stir the sauce.”

  Jayne stood. “I’ll just check on your food.”

  I stared into the flames. What was the stranger doing near the Finchley Hall kitchen? Trying to find an easy way into the house—or contacting one of the servants?

  My cell phone rang. TOM MALLORY popped up on the screen.

  “Hey, it’s me. Are you free for lunch?”

  I felt a bubble of pleasure. Tom’s voice had the remarkable ability to turn me into a teenager. “I’m at the Three Magpies. Want to join me?”

  “On my way.”

  “How close are you?”

  “Ten minutes. Well, fifteen maybe. I’ve got news.”

  “So do I.”

  * * *

  “No problem,” Jayne said when I postponed my order.

  While I waited for Tom, I ordered a glass of white wine and thought about the questions swirling in my brain. Reaching for the pen and small notebook I keep in my handbag, I flipped past my notes on the Finchley Cross. At the top of a blank sheet, I wrote QUESTIONS.

  1.  Who murdered Tabitha King?

  2.  Who was the father of her baby? One of the interns? The dishy vicar?

  3.  Who is the dark stranger? Lucien? Connection to death?

  4.  Why was T lying with her head close to shore? Slip of mud and rocks?

  That was one question I could answer—at least tentatively. Tabitha hadn’t slipped and fallen into Blackwater Lake, and she hadn’t waded into its chilly depths to end her life. She’d been carried, dead or unconscious, and tossed into the lake. Perhaps, under the weight of her body, her killer had slipped on the mud and rocks.

  These were obvious questions. How about the unobvious questions?

  I stared at the fire, watching the flames lick the logs.

  5.  Why were Catherine Kerr and Tabitha King, two women associated with the Hoard, murdered? Connection other than their profession?

  Better but still obvious. I tapped the pencil against my chin.

  6.  Who benefits if the exhibit isn’t held? If Lady Barbara loses the Hall?

  7.  What is bothering me about the crime scene, and why can’t I remember what it is?

  8.  Why did Tabitha make the list at the end of the inventory?

  I sat back and sipped my wine, trying to recall the list. Chalice, arm cuff, emerald pendant, amber necklace, Gospel cover …

  Ten minutes later Tom brushed through the door of the Three Magpies. “Sorry.” He peeled off his waxed jacket and dropped a kiss on my head. “Traffic’s brutal.”

  I couldn’t help smiling. In the two months I’d known him, we’d spent less than a week’s time together, and yet I felt I’d known him all my life. Since the afternoon we’d almost collided on an icy road in the Inner Hebrides, he’d dominated my thoughts and invaded my dreams.

  This wasn’t like me—or like the me I used to be.

  “Have you ordered?” He slid into the banquette beside me.

  “Soup and salad.” I handed him the menu card.

  When Jayne arrived with her order pad, I introduced them. Tom ordered the soup with a warm turkey sandwich and a pot of tea.

  “So what’s your news?”

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Tabitha’s parents arrived today.”

  “How are they?”

  “Shattered. In shock. Determined to find out what happened to their daughter.”

  “What are they like?”

  “Late forties, wealthy, socially prominent—what people these days call the Upper Middleton class. They live in a Grade II–listed Georgian house near Hoxne. Mr. King runs an Internet business and takes an interest in local politics. Mrs. King is a fund-raiser and patron for the local cottage hospital in Aldeburgh. Tabitha was their only child.”

  I closed my eyes, unable to bear thinking about their loss. “Did you learn anything helpful about her? If you’re able to tell me, that is.”

  He speared an olive. “Nothing we’ve learned so far is confidential. Tabitha was bright, sheltered, and—until recently—compliant. Last spring she became involved in what they termed an unsuitable relationship. A young man from a working-class family, a fellow student at the university. Tabitha’s first boyfriend, and her parents, assuming the young man was after her money, forbade her to see him. Which she agreed to, according to them.”

  “What was his name?”

  “She wouldn’t tell them.”

  “That’s odd. They weren’t interested enough to find out?”

  “If they were, they aren’t saying. They believed she’d broken things off. Last August the internship at Finchley Hall came up. They jumped at it. Not only was it a tremendous opportunity for Tabitha, something impressive to put on her CV, but it also took her far away from the young man and, in their words, ‘out of harm’s way.’ They thought she’d refuse to go, but Tabitha seemed delighted. More evidence in their minds she’d gotten over him.”

  “If she had, he wasn’t the father of her baby. How did they react to the news of her pregnancy?”

  “Refused to believe it. When I handed them a copy of the coroner’s report, they were so shocked they couldn’t speak.”

  “Did they say anything more about her depression?”

  “Just that it developed after the break-up. Her local GP prescribed a mild antidepressant. She got better, so they assumed the medication was working. When we searched her room, we found the tablets. She hadn’t been taking them—probably because of the pregnancy. She was fourteen or fifteen weeks along.”

  “When did she arrive in Long Barston?”

  “Early September.”

  I did a quick mental computation. “Which means the baby was conceived just before or just after she arrived. Did you find anything to identify the father—letters, notes?”

  “I’m sorry, Kate. I can’t talk about that. What I can tell you—because her parents have already informed a local reporter—is they’re insisting on DNA testing of all the males at
Finchley Hall. Perhaps the whole village. Mr. King has friends in high places. Chief Superintendent Rollins made it clear he expects a swift arrest.”

  “But doesn’t it take weeks for DNA results?”

  “Under normal circumstances. We’re using a private lab. As I said, Mr. King has friends in high places.”

  “The police assume the killer was the father of her baby?”

  “We’re not assuming anything. Her parents are.”

  “When will you begin?”

  “Later this week if we can find the resources. The interns will be tested first, including those who’ve recently left Finchley Hall.”

  “One of the interns decided not to come. Adam somebody. He might have known Tabitha before.”

  “He’s on our list. So are a couple of other lads—long shots, but we can’t afford to assume anything. That means swabbing the male members of the Hall staff as well, and probably the farmers who graze animals on estate land. If there’s no match, Lord help us, we’ll begin with the villagers.”

  “Putting pressure on you.”

  “I want a fast resolution as well. For the young woman’s parents. And for us.” He put his arm around me and pulled me close. “We were supposed to have two whole weeks together with nothing more urgent than a lost cat or a pub brawl.”

  “Can’t be helped.” I leaned my head against his shoulder. “The interns say Tabitha spent a lot of time at St. Æthelric’s. She may have been getting counseling.” I told him what Jayne had said about the tearful lunch.

  “Are you implying her relationship with the vicar was more than spiritual?”

  “More likely she needed to confide in someone about the pregnancy. You’re the one who asked for details, remember?” I changed the subject. “What about the theft near Lowestoft?”

  “You heard about that, did you? That’s Eastern Division. Not my patch.”

  “Any news on the mysterious stranger?”