A Legacy of Murder

by Connie Berry

  “Not yet, but I’ll have to—”

  Tom broke off as Jayne pushed open the swinging door from the kitchen, balancing a tray on her shoulder. Our carrot soup, topped with a dollop of cream and a sprig of dill, was served in small porcelain tureens. My salad was crisp, with slices of avocado, snow peas, and plump ruby pomegranate seeds. Tom’s sandwich combined generous forkfuls of turkey with cranberry sauce and melted brie on whole-grain bread.

  I took a spoonful of soup and almost moaned. Were the locals crazy? For food like this, I wouldn’t care if the Colliers were descended from Lizzie Borden and Jack the Ripper.

  Jayne brought a teapot to the table and filled Tom’s cup. Then she disappeared into the kitchen.

  Tom cut off a triangle of his sandwich. “As long as I’m here, I might as well ask the waitress if she knows anything about the stranger.”

  “Don’t bother. He isn’t staying here. Never has. Jayne and her husband are the owners, by the way. He caught a glimpse of someone near the Hall but didn’t see enough to be helpful.”

  Tom put down his fork and stared at me. “How do you know all that?”

  “I asked—that’s where my news comes in.” I told him about Lady Barbara and Vivian strong-arming me into helping with the exhibit and stopping the village rumor mill. “Lady Barbara’s desperate. The future of Finchley Hall is at stake—and her family’s reputation. How could I refuse?”

  “You’re doing it again—getting mixed up in a murder enquiry.” He shook his head. “No, Kate. Not this time. If anything happened to you, I’d never forgive myself.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen to me—not with you in charge of the investigation.” I put down the forkful of salad I was about to eat. “In Scotland, my sister-in-law and my husband’s best childhood friend were involved. The police were looking in the wrong direction. This is different.” He looked skeptical, but I kept going. “This isn’t about the murder. That’s your job. This is about the Hoard exhibit and Lady Barbara’s son.”

  “What does her son have to do with it?” No one had told him yet.

  “Lucien Finchley-fforde was a suspect in the death of that museum curator twenty-three years ago—Catherine Kerr. He fled to South America. Village gossip claims he’s back—just in time to kill Tabitha King. Lady Barbara insists he’s in Venezuela, and she can prove it. All I did was promise to finish the work on the exhibit and ask a few questions about the stranger.”

  What about those questions you wrote in your notebook? inquired the voice of conscience.

  Mere curiosity, I assured myself—quite convincingly, too.

  “So you thought you’d ask questions.” He cocked an eyebrow.

  “She was telling me about their guest rooms. It was natural.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Really, Tom. This is about Lady Barbara, not the murder. Tabitha’s death has absolutely nothing to do with me.”

  He pursed his lips. “I’ll check with immigration to see if they know anything about Lady Barbara’s son. In the meantime, keep me informed. No secrets?”

  “No secrets, I promise.”

  We finished our food. I left a sliver of avocado, just to prove I could.

  He paid the check and held the front door open for me. “By the way, my mother wants you to come for dinner on Wednesday.”

  So soon?

  He gathered me in his arms and kissed me until I pulled back to breathe.

  I had no clue where this relationship was going. And at the moment, I didn’t care.

  Chapter Ten

  Photo Finish occupied the ground floor of a narrow Tudor building on the High Street, Long Barston’s main thoroughfare. Potted fir trees hung with red plaid bows stood on either side of a planked oak door with iron hinges. I stopped to read a sign in the small leaded window: QUALITY DESIGN & CUSTOM PRINTING.

  A man behind the counter, youngish and on the wrong side of two hundred pounds, was reading The Magpie Murders by Anthony Horowitz. Closing the book, he looked up. “May I help you?”

  “I’m Kate Hamilton from the Hall. I’m helping Lady Barbara with the Hoard exhibit.”

  “We wondered who would contact us. My partner and I were devastated when we heard about Miss King’s death. She was a charming young lady. Very organized.”

  “She planned to contact you—about the catalogs, I assume. Are they ready?”

  “I’m afraid not. Miss King was going to stop by last Saturday to pick up the final proofs. We never print until the customer signs off on the proofs. Once printed, there’s no going back.”

  I could sympathize. Once the student-run newspaper at Case Western Reserve University ran with the headline CAMPUS FLASHER CAUGHT ON VIDEO, unfortunately positioned over a photo of the football team’s new plush-headed character mascot.

  “I guess that means me, now,” I said. “I’m not sure what’s involved.”

  “No probs.” He dashed off and returned with a packet bound in brown paper. “Read through carefully. Mark any necessary changes and drop off the proofs here. Once we have them, printing and assembly can be completed in a matter of days.”

  “How many days?”

  He rubbed a hand over his head. “Week, maybe. Ten days tops.”

  “We only have ten days until the exhibit.”

  “Not to worry,” he said in a tone that made me think I should be very worried indeed. “We’ll do our best.”

  Tucking the packet under my arm, I stepped into the sunlight. I’d be able to catch obvious typos, misspellings, and grammatical mistakes, but I wasn’t at all certain I could catch errors in terminology. I’d have to compare the wording in the proofs with Tabitha’s database. That would take time.

  I passed a young Sky News reporter in the process of filming. He spoke in hushed tones. “The village of Long Barston in Suffolk was the scene of a vicious murder last Saturday, when a young woman—”

  His voice faded as I walked along the row of shops, their windows festooned with evergreens and sprigs of holly. Long Barston was ready for the holidays. A tall fir near the church had been strung with white lights and golden stars. I sighed. Once the press arrived in full force, the village wouldn’t feel so festive.

  A woman bustled past carrying shopping bags.

  “Oh, hullo. Kate, isn’t it?” Glenda and her son, Danny, stood in front of a picture window featuring green-felted elves beavering away in Santa’s Workshop. A sign over the door said TALBOT’S TOYS & COLLECTIBLES. Danny wore a school uniform, gray trousers with a navy blazer piped in red. He carried a backpack.

  “Hi, Danny. School out early today?”

  He scuffed the toe of his leather shoe on the pavement. I couldn’t help noticing the difference in him. Where was the exuberant little boy I’d met the day of the Finchley Hall tour?

  “Danny had a doctor’s appointment this afternoon,” Glenda said.

  “Everything okay?”

  “Fine. Or it will be, right, Danny?” She patted his head. “Why don’t you go check out the Legos? Mum will be there in a minute.”

  Danny trudged off and Glenda blew out a breath. “I promised to buy him a new Lego set if he was nice to the doctor.”

  “Is Danny sick?”

  Her chin trembled. “The doctor is a psychologist. Today was our second visit. Danny’s been having night terrors.”

  “Oh, dear. I’m sure that’s normal. He had quite a shock—we all did, but he’s so young. I hope the doctor was encouraging.”

  “He was.” Glenda’s eyes looked puffy. “It’s only Danny’s not sleeping much, which means I’m not sleeping either. What with his school and my job, we’re knackered. The doctor gave us some pills.”

  “Well, good luck.”

  “Thanks.” Glenda waved and headed inside the store.

  On my way to the footpath, I passed the Finchley Arms. They’d put out a signboard, too. NO CUISINE. REAL PUB FOOD. SOUP OF THE DAY: BEER.

  I shook my head. The Peacocks were going to have to come up with something bet
ter than frozen pizza and dried-out chicken tenders to compete with the Three Magpies. That is, if the locals plucked up the courage to give it a try.

  Then I saw it, a small shop, tucked between Cate’s Cattery and Pen to Paper, Stationers . The sign read THE CABINET OF CURIOSITIES. A collection of early silver tea caddies filled the narrow front window.

  I looked at the package of proofs I was carrying, then at the mullioned window. Did I mention I’m a world-class procrastinator?

  A spring-loaded bell jangled as I stepped into a world I knew and loved. My world, with the musty smell of old wood and even older dust. My world, where the relics of the past, from the humblest handmade doll’s quilt to the finest examples of porcelain and silver, offer the closest thing we have to time travel. At least that’s what an antiques shop does for me—that and the tantalizing prospect of a find so incredible it would make episode of the year on Antiques Roadshow. Not that I find amazing things on a regular basis. It’s the possibility.

  “May I help you?” A small man peered at me from behind a counter. He couldn’t have been more than five feet tall, with round, pink cheeks and sparse white hair frizzed out like a halo. Straight out of a Dickens novel.

  I must have been staring, because he said, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle.” He straightened up and shot me a curious look. His eyes were a bright electric blue. “You’re in the trade. I can always tell. Something about the flushed cheeks.” He chuckled as if he’d just said something delightfully droll.

  “Guilty as charged,” I admitted. “Do you mind if I have a look around?”

  “Be my guest. Ivor Tweedy here. I was examining a brooch. Norse. What do you think, hmm?”

  I leaned over the counter to inspect what looked like a broken circle, bisected by the shaft of a pin. “It’s a fibula brooch,” I said, “used to fasten clothing. It looks like gold. Where did you find it?”

  “Definitely gold. And it found me, so to speak. Brought in by a picker. Unusual fellow … hmm, yes. Stops in every few weeks.” Ivor Tweedy’s head popped up. “What did you say your name was?”

  I hadn’t, so I told him.

  “Kate Hamilton … hmm. All right, Kate, what’s your professional opinion? Shall I buy this pin or not?” He fixed me with his blue eyes, and I got the impression this was some kind of test.

  “That would depend on the price, of course. And whether or not you have a buyer.”

  “Yes, yes.” He nodded encouragingly, as if I’d gotten my multiplication tables right. “And?”

  “And”—now I really did feel like a schoolgirl—“whether or not it’s genuine.”

  “And, and—?” He rolled his hand to spur me on.

  “Or stolen.”

  Ivor Tweedy clapped his hands and bounced, bringing a grimace of pain. “Exactly so. Those are the questions I must ask. Now, the picker is a careful lad. Never known him to deal in stolen goods.”

  I knew about pickers. My parents had one for years. Pickers are a subculture in the antiques trade, combing small sales and auctions for items to buy and sell at a profit. They provide an invaluable service to dealers who constantly need fresh stock but don’t have the time or energy to attend every auction and estate sale. Some dealers, like my parents, form long-term relationships with certain pickers and depend on them.

  “What questions are you asking?” I said, turning the tables on him.

  He grinned, revealing a sliver of gold tooth. “Is it the real thing, of course. I have buyers who specialize in this stuff—Anglo-Saxon, Viking, early Norman. If I were to offer a reproduction, my reputation would be ruined.” He handed me the brooch, the pin threaded through a square of soft fabric.

  “I’m no expert on medieval jewelry,” I said, turning the pin in my hand. “But I’ve seen these before. They’re usually bronze or silver.” The flattened circle of gold was embellished with a distinctive design of dots and triangles. “If this was found in Britain, it probably dates from the ninth or tenth centuries—before the Norman Invasion, anyway.”

  He beamed at me. “So the question I ask next concerns provenance—the history of the piece, where it was found, the chain of ownership.”

  “And?”

  “Dug up in a garden near Beccles, I’m told. The owners, assuming it was bronze, sold it for two hundred pounds.”

  “And it’s worth, well, close to—”

  “Ten times that amount.” He chuckled.

  I laughed, too, but not at him. I knew what he meant. I would never knowingly cheat a seller, although I could. I know all the tricks. But sometimes things just fall into your lap. “How long have you owned the shop?”

  “All my life, you might say. I was born in this house.” He nodded toward the upper floors. “Joined the Merchant Navy as a lad. Traveled the globe. Acquired a taste for history, other cultures. I began collecting things—unique things, rare things. I wanted to know who made them and why. I found I had an aptitude for research.”

  “Research?” He and my mother, whose near-Sherlockian principles of observation and deduction had made her a legend in her day, would get along like a house on fire.

  “Objects have a past, a history—like people,” Ivor said. “Take this snuffbox, for example.” He opened a drawer and lifted out a small tortoiseshell snuffbox, which he held to the light. “Eighteenth century, extraordinary craftsmanship. A jewel in its own right. But proving it belonged to the English poet Alexander Pope—now, that will double or triple the value.” He laid his forefinger on the translucent brown-and-amber shell.

  “What makes you think the box belonged to Pope?”

  He opened the chased gold clasp and removed a scrap of paper, upon which was written in a faded Spencerian script:

  Given me on the death of A. Pope.

  F. Redfern. 30th May 1744.

  Oh Grave! Where is thy victory? Oh Death! Where is thy sting?

  “Lines from the New Testament,” I said.

  “They also happen to be the final lines of Pope’s famous poem ‘The Dying Christian to His Soul.’ The date referenced, May thirtieth, 1744, is the date of the great poet’s death. If I can identify F. Redfern, and if he is connected in some way to Alexander Pope, Bob’s your uncle.”

  “Good luck.” I had more immediate topics on my mind than Alexander Pope. “You must know the village well, having been born here.”

  “Not much escapes me.” He sucked in his cheeks and thrust out his chest.

  “What do you know about Lucien Finchley-fforde?”

  “Why do you ask?” He narrowed his eyes.

  “My daughter is an intern at Finchley Hall. Lady Barbara asked me to look into rumors about a stranger in the village. Have you seen him?”

  “Maybe yes, maybe no. I did see someone, but whether he is a stranger or the stranger, I couldn’t say.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “Didn’t get a good look. Dark clothing, some kind of cap. Saw the back of him, not his face. He was in the churchyard of St. Æthelric’s, near the entrance to the footpath.”

  “The villagers say he’s Lady Barbara’s son, returned from Venezuela.”

  “To murder another young woman, yes.” Ivor Tweedy pursed his lips. “I’ve heard the rumors. That’s all they are.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Ivor Tweedy replaced the tortoiseshell box in the drawer and closed it.

  “Because Lucien Finchley-fforde is dead.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “How does he know Lucien Finchley-fforde is dead?”

  I’d phoned Tom on the way back to Finchley Hall. “He doesn’t know it. He believes it. Lucien and Ivor Tweedy went to the village school together until Lucien was sent to a public school near Bury St. Edmunds.”

  “All right, so why does he believe Lucien is dead?”

  “Because, according to Mr. Tweedy, if Lucien were alive, he’d be bleeding Lady Barbara dry. He never believed the story about Lucien making it big in the oil business in Venezuela. He insists Luci
en lacked the ambition and the business sense. I liked Mr. Tweedy, Tom. I really did. I don’t think he’d say something without good reason. Ivor believes he’s dead because Lucien has made no attempts to tap the keg, as he put it.”

  “Do we know for sure he hasn’t tried to tap the keg?”

  “Vivian told me Lady Barbara sends her son twenty pounds every once in a while, but that’s hardly tapping the keg.”

  “No, but how does Tweedy explain the fact that Lucien writes his mother every week?”

  “You’ll have to ask him.”

  Tom made a noncommittal sound. “We’ve contacted the police in Venezuela. Things are in chaos there at the moment. Another coup attempt. But they should be able to confirm Lucien’s presence in their country. We’re waiting to hear. In the meantime, our immigration service has no record of his entering England legally.”

  “So what’s next?”

  “We ask around. The stranger’s been seen, all right, but he hasn’t been back to the pub, and he hasn’t rented a room anywhere within thirty miles as far as we can tell. He may be sleeping rough. Not a crime. He’s probably some poor sod who happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “Any more information on Tabitha?”

  The line went silent. “This is confidential, Kate. She drowned, but she was probably unconscious when she went into the water. She’d sustained a significant blow to the back of her head. Traces of adhesive were found on her hands and mouth. She’d been restrained.”

  “Adhesive?” I shuddered. “Was she …?” The phrase that came to mind was interfered with, a ridiculous euphemism you read in those classic murder mysteries of the twenties and thirties.

  “She wasn’t raped. Which underscores my feeling about the stranger. He drifts into a town and murders a girl he doesn’t know for no apparent reason? It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Have you asked her parents? Could this be some sort of revenge killing?”

  “They’re completely in the dark.”

  “You believe them?”

  “I do, Kate. Until there’s a reason not to.”

  “What kind of weapon was used?”

  “Some sort of flat, heavy tool. Steel, probably. No traces of rust or wood fibers.”