A Legacy of Murder

by Connie Berry

  I pictured the old gardener leaning on a spade. “Wouldn’t the killer have gotten blood all over his clothing?”

  “Destroyed if he had any sense. Probably burned.”

  I pictured the fluted brazier outside the gardener’s shed.

  * * *

  Back at Finchley Hall, the first thing I did was stop at the archives building to grab the spreadsheet Tabitha had put together. Then I ran up the stairs to Christine’s office. She wasn’t there, but she had been. The coffee mug was gone. So were the account books. The file folders on the square table were neatly stacked.

  I stood for a moment at her window. Dusk was settling on the estate. Who would ever guess this idyllic place had been the scene of several brutal murders? Tall oaks and spreading limes stretched sheltering limbs over blackthorn and shrubby hazel. Stately yews and clumps of pines formed islands of green. Vivian’s fairy-tale cottage stood in the shadows. Behind it, in the distance, a long black car moved slowly along the road. I imagined it was Tabitha King’s parents, returning from the police station in Long Barston. How long would they have to wait to take their daughter home for burial?

  That evening in my room I worked on the proofs of the Hoard catalog, making it through the first few pages. I found a few minor typos, which I corrected, and a misspelling—Tabitha’s mistake, not the printer’s. The work was necessarily slow and detailed. The catalog would be sold not just to interested amateurs, but to scholars and collectors. Every word, every description, had to be perfect—checked and rechecked, not only against Tabitha’s inventories but also, in some cases, online. Fortunately I’d brought my computer.

  The technical nature of the listing brought up another question. What sources had Tabitha used? She’d been a museum designer, not an expert in medieval art. If she’d hired an art expert to help, there was no mention of it in the catalog. Had she consulted some earlier inventory? For the first time, it occurred to me that the handwritten list might be a record of discrepancies.

  I reminded myself to ask Lady Barbara—after I’d finished going through the proofs. Completing the catalog on time was the most important task. If I could get the corrected proofs to Photo Finish by Wednesday, there was a good chance the catalog would be ready for the exhibit on the nineteenth.

  At eight PM, realizing I was starving, I made myself scrambled eggs and bacon on the half-size Rayburn cooker. I hadn’t spoken with my daughter since noon, when she had insisted she was just fine, thank you, and said she’d call me. She hadn’t.

  I took a bite of toast and flopped on the love seat.

  My trip to England, the one I’d dreamed about for more than a month, wasn’t turning out as I’d hoped. I’d imagined spending time with Christine, establishing a new relationship—more friend to friend than parent and child. We’d go to pubs together, I’d thought. We’d laugh, take walks, do a little Christmas shopping in the village. I’d visit her at work. She might join me on a few antiquing trips.

  I would like Tristan—or try my hardest.

  Well, that was a no-go, and perhaps no longer an issue. Unless Christine had forgiven him. Again.

  One of Christine’s problems with men was admitting she’d made a mistake. She’d hang on to the bitter end, making things worse. I’d always suspected her loyalty had more to do with pride than affection.

  I shut down that line of thought. It made me crazy.

  And then there was Tom. He’d wanted us to get to know each other better, to see if our relationship had a future. Instead he was knee-deep in a murder investigation, and the best we could do was an occasional phone call or a hurried meal.

  Except for Wednesday night. Panic fizzed in my chest. On Wednesday I’d see his house in Saxby St. Clare, the house he’d shared for years with Sarah. On Wednesday I’d meet his mother. The one who didn’t like Americans.

  I picked up the phone and dialed the number of the antiques shop in Jackson Falls.

  “Antiques at the Falls,” came the familiar voice. “This is Linnea Larsen.”

  Oh, I missed her. “Hi, Mom. How’s it going?”

  “Splendid. Fiona is the hit of the shop. Today she sold that double-chairback settee, the one with the caned back and seat.”

  I laughed, feeling better already. “Now, how did a cat sell a settee?”

  “By curling up in it. A customer saw her dozing in the sunlight and said she could picture her own cat doing the same. Had to have it.”

  “Well done, Fiona. Could we get her to curl up on that horrible Victorian mirror?”

  “Even Fiona might not be able to shift that thing.”

  The previous autumn I’d purchased a heavy Victorian mirror at auction. The silvered glass was in good shape. The horrible part was the frame—fourteen inches of gilded gesso, encrusted with floral garlands, quivering arrows, and fat little putti with disagreeable faces. My client, a woman with more money than taste, had shown me a mirror she loved in one of those Victoriana magazines. I’d found its first cousin at an auction in Cleveland and texted her the photo. She adored it. Had to have it. Price was no object. Then she changed her mind, leaving me with a piece so ugly I refused to display it on the shop floor. I do have my pride.

  “How are you, Mom? I hope the shop isn’t too much. Why don’t you take an afternoon off? Call Charlotte or one of the other part-timers.” My mother is a healthy, youthful seventy-something, always ready to drive down from Wisconsin to help me out. But when she arrived this time, two days before my flight to England, I’d thought she looked tired.

  “I’m fine. Enjoying myself. Have they found the killer of that young woman?”

  She was redirecting the conversation, a tactic I use with Christine. Learn from the best, they say.

  “Not yet.” I told her the latest, including the medical examiner’s verdict of murder, the proposed DNA testing, and the rumors about Lucien Finchley-fforde. “I told Lady Barbara I’d finish setting up the exhibit. It shouldn’t be difficult. Tabitha had everything well organized. Lady Barbara is depending on the exhibit to bring in cash. Maintaining a house like Finchley Hall is a monumental task, but she’s determined to make it work. And I promised to ask a few discreet questions about the stranger in the village.”

  “Kate, darling, you won’t get mixed up in the murder, will you?”

  Had she and Tom been talking? “Absolutely not. I promise. All I’m doing is finding the source of the rumors and putting a stop to them if I can. The stranger can’t be Lady Barbara’s son. She just got a letter from Venezuela. Besides, why would he return to England and not contact her?”

  “Is there a statute of limitations on murder in the UK?”

  “Probably not. I’d have to ask Tom. But that’s another reason Lucien wouldn’t return. According to his mother, he’s afraid the police will arrest him.”

  “What about the Hoard? Didn’t you say the treasure trove was connected to all the previous murders?”

  “Not all the murders. Not Susannah Finchley. The man who attacked her was after her ruby ring. Susannah spoils the pattern.”

  “But are you seeing the whole pattern, Kate? Sometimes it’s the outliers, the anomalies, that bring a picture into focus. Like looking at a photograph of what you assume is a dry, cracked riverbed and then noticing, way up in the corner, the elephant’s amber eye. That tiny detail changes everything.”

  “I’m not investigating the murders, remember? Tom’s got that well in hand.”

  “And I’m very grateful. Just be careful. Love you, darling girl.”

  “Love you too.”

  I held the phone to my chest and pondered the question of anomalies and outliers. When Tabitha’s body was found, the police had considered the most likely scenarios first. A tragic accident. The suicide of a desperate young woman with a history of depression. An unwanted pregnancy and parents with impossibly high standards.

  Now that they knew Tabitha was murdered, the pregnancy had taken on a different significance. Was the father of the baby a violent young m
an with no room in his future for a wife and child? Was he a married man with too much to lose if their affair went public?

  What was the outlier in this case—the detail that seemed not to fit but put the whole picture in perspective? Could it be Tabitha’s handwritten list?

  None of the items on the inventory matched the handwritten list. So far.

  I grabbed the proofs and settled back on the love seat.

  Only eighty-nine to go.

  Chapter Twelve

  Wednesday, December 9th

  I stared into my closet. What if Tom’s mother wore a long dress and I didn’t? What if she didn’t and I did?

  Be yourself, I heard my mother say. She’ll love you.

  Sometimes my mother can be touchingly naïve.

  Like Tom. He was so sure I’d charm Liz Mallory. How was I going to do that? Would she be impressed with my knowledge of antiques or the fact that I owned my own business? Would she sympathize with my status as a widow or warm to me because we’d both raised teenage girls? Maybe if I tried to be less American. I imagined myself slipping into the Scottish brogue I’d perfected in the early years of my marriage to Bill. Right—wouldn’t that just seal the deal. Liz’s unfaithful husband had been Scottish.

  I stared at the closet again.

  Just don’t look like you’re trying too hard.

  I pulled out my black midi-length tube skirt and the cherry-red cashmere sweater Tom had liked in Scotland. The one Christine had bought for my birthday. With my Visa card.

  Thinking about Christine brought a pang of worry. We hadn’t had a real conversation since our phone call on Monday. Oh, I’d spoken with her all right, at the Stables and the archives building, and she’d seemed back to her usual self. She was fine. Everything was fine. But I’d seen the gate, the one she puts up when I get too close. This far and no further. Whenever I brought up the topic of Tristan, she’d change the subject. My daughter has the ability to project the image she wants to create.

  I stepped into the skirt and slithered it up to my waist.

  Christine. Maybe this time I was seeing what I feared rather than what was real. She’d stopped in my room the previous night, full of a story about finding some fascinating old family papers in a mismarked folio in the archives. She’d asked about her grandmother, and we’d laughed until our stomachs hurt about the cat selling the settee. Best of all, there’d been no repeat of the blowup with Alex Devereux. And I’d seen Christine and Tristan walking arm in arm toward the Folly.

  Was it too much to hope that the rest of my time in Suffolk would include no more drama—and (please) no more bodies?

  I buttoned my red sweater and sorted through my makeup kit for the red lipstick I wear on special occasions. Usually I make do with a swipe of mascara and cherry-colored lip gloss. I glanced at my image in the mirror, trying but failing to see myself as Liz Mallory would.

  Stop creating your own drama.

  I should have been looking forward to the evening. I needed a break from catalog proofs and display plans. Not that I hadn’t enjoyed the process. Putting the exhibit together was like solving a jigsaw puzzle. But I still hadn’t identified any of the handwritten items on the catalog proofs. That was bothering me, but I’d forced myself to stay on track, conscious of the deadline.

  So far, I’d said nothing to Tom about Tabitha’s list. He had more important things to think about. But the whereabouts of those eleven objects niggled at the back of my mind. Was that tiny detail the outlier?

  What’s the most important piece of a jigsaw puzzle? my mother had asked me once. The corner piece, I’d answered confidently. She’d raised an eyebrow. The most important piece, Kate, is the cover of the box. The cover shows you the whole picture.

  I would tell Tom about the list tonight, after dinner. I’d promised to tell him everything.

  Earlier in the afternoon I’d dropped off the corrected proofs at Photo Finish. The printer had promised to deliver the catalogs to the archives building by the afternoon of the eighteenth, the day before the exhibit. Too close for comfort, in my opinion, but he’d insisted it was the best he could do.

  The afternoon had been clear and mild, and the evening promised to follow suit. I wouldn’t need my down jacket—just my flowered wool scarf that doubled as a shawl.

  Ignoring the queasy feeling I’d had since lunch, I wrapped the scarf around my shoulders, grabbed my handbag, and walked to the Commons.

  Just in time to see Tom’s car swing into the parking area.

  Showtime.

  * * *

  “Have another shrimp puff.” Tom’s mother held out a platter of puff pastry rounds topped with shrimp and goat cheese. Liz Mallory was an attractive woman in her late sixties with an athletic build and a head of thick, shoulder-length hair in that lovely silver color few are blessed with but everyone admires.

  I took a shrimp puff. “Absolutely delicious. Did you make them?”

  “Of course.” She looked at me with surprise, like I’d asked if she brushed her own teeth. She served Tom and set the plate on a side table. “Do you like to cook, Kate?”

  “Cooking was never my strong suit. I don’t do it much since my husband died.” An understatement. My freezer was stocked with Lean Cuisine, and I had a running tab with Dinners2Go, the local restaurant delivery service in Jackson Falls.

  “I suppose you don’t have time, running your antiques shop,” she said. “Working women have other priorities, don’t they? Now, I simply love to cook. So did Tom’s wife, Sarah. She loved being a homemaker.”

  “Sarah did work, if you remember,” Tom said. “Until her illness.”

  “Only part-time at the estate agent’s,” Liz said dismissively. “Her real love was cooking. She was a true gourmet, Kate. Always trying out new recipes.” She smiled at her son. “Sarah always made sure there was something delicious when you came home after a long day.” She turned her cool gray eyes on me. “I try to live up to her example.”

  “Not that policemen are home for a family meal all that often.” Tom laughed unconvincingly. Was that sweat I saw on his brow? “Policemen live on fast food.”

  “There’s a policeman’s life for you.” Liz shrugged. “Family takes second place.”

  “Now, that’s not true. I always make time for you and Olivia. Don’t tell me you feel neglected.”

  “Of course I don’t.” Liz Mallory waved away the suggestion. “I know you do your best.”

  Battle lines were being drawn, and I was in the middle of the field.

  Liz turned to me. “What do you think of our little cottage, Kate? Not what you’re used to in the States, I imagine. We always picture Americans living in enormous, multi-story homes on postage-stamp lots.”

  “We don’t all live like that,” I said, feeling slightly defensive. And more than a little guilty. I lived in a house exactly like that—a three-story Victorian on a quarter acre in Jackson Falls’ historic district. I’d thought about selling it, now that the children were grown, but I’d never taken the step of calling a realtor.

  “We live simply here,” Liz said, “but this is all we need. Four rooms on the ground level. Three bedrooms and a bath up. A small garden.”

  “Your home is charming.” I said, and meant it. The Grade II–listed farmhouse stood well back from a road on the outskirts of the tiny village of Saxby St. Clare. The exterior, Tom had explained as we drove up the gravel drive, was the typical Suffolk flint and chalk with red-brick quoins and lintels and a pantile roof. When he and Sarah had purchased the property, the house was in need of updating and repairs, something Sarah had poured herself into until her diagnosis of cancer.

  I took in the large, beamed room. The woodwork was painted glossy white, the walls a soft butter yellow. A comfortable sofa and upholstered chairs were covered in loose, rose-striped slipcovers and arranged around a brick fireplace. A Christmas tree stood in the corner, trimmed with pinecones and garlands of red berries. The effect was less fussy and feminine than Vivian’s li
ttle chocolate-box cottage, but I was reminded of the country homes featured in British design magazines.

  Not only had Sarah Mallory been a gourmet cook, she’d been a talented decorator as well. Of course she had. She would have played the violin and spoken several languages. And I probably would have loved her.

  Liz led the way into a dining room with a polished oak table and sideboard. Through the open door to the kitchen, I caught a glimpse of milk-colored cabinets and a cream Aga cooker.

  The meal Liz had prepared—roasted chicken with tiny round potatoes and bright-orange carrots—was so tasty, I almost promised myself to sign up for one of the organic food delivery services when I got back to Ohio. Almost.

  “Do you have special holiday traditions, Kate?” Liz Mallory turned her cool gray eyes on me. “I know you don’t pull Christmas crackers or celebrate Boxing Day.”

  Finally something I could talk about. “My happiest memories involve spending Christmas Eve at my grandparents’ farm in Wisconsin. It was wonderful. We usually had snow—lots of it—and we’d build snowmen and snow forts. Grandpa would harness up the horse, Magnus”—I smiled, remembering the huge, gentle giant—“and he’d pull the grandkids around all afternoon in the hay wagon. After dinner we’d sit around the tree and open our presents.”

  “Presents on Christmas Eve?” She frowned. “What happened to Father Christmas?”

  “Santa comes early in Wisconsin—one less thing to do later.”

  Tom laughed, but my attempt to be funny fell flat.

  “Too bad you won’t be spending an English Christmas this year. When is it you leave?”

  “The twenty-second.” Man, this was uncomfortable. Tom looked desperate, and there was something in Liz’s eyes that made me uneasy. So much for my charming personality working its magic.

  I glanced at my watch. Eight forty. The evening would be over soon. Please.

  Liz wouldn’t let me help clear the dinner plates. She brought in a fancy layered fruit trifle in a footed glass bowl. “Tom tells me you’re involved with the Hoard exhibit. I’m sure Lady Barbara is pleased. It must be interesting work for you. I’ve seen the Hoard, you know.”