by Connie Berry
“Really? I understood this would be the first showing.” I took a generous helping of trifle.
“The first showing of the entire collection, yes. But every month Lady Barbara chooses several new objects to put on display with the Finchley Cross. People come from all over England to see them.”
I thought about the handwritten list. Were these items Lady Barbara had chosen to put on display? I hadn’t seen them, but maybe they were stored somewhere in the house rather than the archives. Another question for Lady Barbara.
“Do you know Lady Barbara well?” I asked.
“Not as a friend, no, although we were on a committee together a few years ago. She’s a charming woman, living a privileged life.”
“She’s had her share of trouble.”
Tom gave me a pointed look. Which I ignored. This was not about the murder.
“I don’t listen to gossip,” Liz said, implying that delving into other people’s personal affairs must be one of my hobbies. “Besides, all that business with her son happened years before we moved into the area.” Liz set down her spoon and gave me her full attention. “Tell me about your family.” Tiny lines around her eyes and mouth gave away her age, but not those clear gray eyes. I imagined her looking straight into my heart, searching for my insecurities.
Why couldn’t I project an unruffled image like Christine?
After explaining about my husband’s unexpected death of a massive heart attack three years ago, I told her about Eric’s studies in Italy and Christine’s internship at Finchley Hall. “This trip is a chance to spend time with her. The mother-daughter thing is never easy, is it?”
“Isn’t it?” Liz’s eyes opened, and the corners of her mouth turned down. “You don’t get along with your mother?”
“Of course I do. We’re best friends now, but I wasn’t the easiest child to raise.” It was true. Even my patient, uncomplicated mother had struggled with parenting a teenager.
“I never had a daughter, as you know. Tom is an only child. But Olivia and I get along very well. And she adored her mother.” She turned to Tom. “Sarah and Olivia were inseparable, weren’t they?”
“I wouldn’t say inseparable.” Tom shifted in his chair. He looked miserable.
“Seconds?” Liz passed the glass bowl.
I took another spoonful to please her. Coward.
“Who’s keeping your shop open while you’re in England?”
“My mother. She and my father were antiques dealers. That’s how I got my start.”
“Your mother lives with you?”
“Oh, no. She lives in a retirement community in Wisconsin.”
“I see.” Liz gave me a look that hovered between pity and accusation. “I give her credit. I really do. I’m afraid I couldn’t live in a home for the aged. No privacy. And that awful antiseptic smell.”
“That’s not how it is at all.” I swallowed a bite of trifle, feeling a lump forming. “Oak Hills is a wonderful place. Mom has a lovely apartment and—” My throat closed. I broke off, afraid I might cry.
Tom grabbed for my hand under the table.
That was all it took.
I stood. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mallory. Everything was lovely tonight. Simply perfect. But I’m afraid I don’t feel very well. Tom, would you mind driving me back to the Stables?”
“Shall I call a doctor?” Liz asked. She looked genuinely concerned.
“Jet lag,” I said. “I need sleep.”
* * *
“Oh, Kate.” Tom reached across the gear shift. “I don’t know what got into my mother tonight.”
“I do,” I said in a small voice. “She’s afraid I might whisk you away to the Midwest.”
He didn’t answer.
The road was dark and narrow with hedgerows that seemed to claw for my side of the car. A pheasant with a death wish flew up in our headlights, missing the windshield by inches.
“It’s obvious. Your mother doesn’t like me.”
“That’s not true. She has to get to know you. Give her time.”
“We don’t have time. I’m flying back to the States on the twenty-second.”
“We could try again. Dinner at the Trout. Neutral territory?”
“No.” The firmness in my tone surprised me. “I’m not going to spend the time I have left in England defending myself against your mother’s hostility.”
Tom downshifted as the road took a sharp turn. “That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it? It takes her a while to warm up to people, to trust them.” His face was in deep shadows. “She’s been through a lot. My father’s affair, raising me by herself, now raising her granddaughter.”
“The problem is I can see her point, Tom. You’re not going to move to Ohio, and I’m not going to move to England. We have jobs, families, responsibilities.” I’d said the same thing in Scotland, but now that I’d met Liz Mallory, I was certain of it. “She doesn’t like me. Olivia probably won’t like me either. And Christine, in case you hadn’t noticed, wasn’t that keen on you.”
“Really?” He frowned. “I hadn’t noticed.”
A rush of warmth for this man flooded in. He took people at face value—non-criminals, anyway. If men can be clueless about emotional subtext, they can also be readier than women to forgive and move on. There weren’t many ways in which Tom was like Bill, but this was one of them.
“Families are important,” I said. “Bill’s sister resented me from the first. She blamed me for his move to the States, even though he’d left Scotland years before we met. Maybe she assumed he’d eventually move back, I don’t know. Bill never let it affect his love for his sister, but he was hurt by it.”
“Parents can’t choose who their children fall in love with.”
And I can’t choose for Christine. “But there are repercussions. Think about Tabitha King. What if she’d lived and married the boy from the working-class family? Would her parents have accepted him?”
“We don’t know he was the father.”
“That’s not the point. The point is, would a decision like that have driven a permanent wedge between Tabitha and her parents?” I shook my head. “Your mother will never accept me. It’s hopeless.”
“No. It’s irrelevant. I accept you. That’s all that matters.” He squeezed my arm. “I love my family. I’m not sure I can live without you.”
My heart bounced into my throat. His hand felt warm, familiar. I felt my reservations slipping away. We’d turned onto the A131. I looked at his profile, the way his hair curled slightly around his ears and at the nape of his neck.
I felt a lump in my throat as I faced the consequences of my own words.
If our relationship really was hopeless, we should break it off now, before either of us got hurt. Or had we already passed the point of no return?
I slid as close to him as the gear shift would allow and put my head on his shoulder. “Can we talk about something else?”
“Definitely.”
“This may not be relevant, but you said to tell you everything, so here goes.” I explained about the handwritten list at the end of the Hoard listing. “Eleven items. None show up in the proofs of the catalog, and none show up on the spreadsheet she produced. I’ve been trying to figure out why Tabitha wrote them.”
“Are you saying they’re missing?”
“I’m not saying anything at this point. All I know is Tabitha listed a hundred and eighty-nine objects on her inventory. Then she listed eleven more by hand, and I can’t find them anywhere. I’m going to ask Lady Barbara, but if they’re missing, how did Tabitha know about them in the first place? She must have consulted some earlier inventory. I haven’t found one.”
“Would the woman from the Museum of Suffolk History have made a listing?”
“Catherine Kerr? I haven’t heard that she did, but tonight your mother said Lady Barbara displays a few of the objects from the Hoard each year along with the Finchley Cross. Never the same ones, so people have a reason to return. I’m wondering if the e
leven items are ones Lady Barbara had on display and then never returned to the safe.”
“You’ll have to ask her.”
“I will. But what if they’re really missing?”
“And that’s why Tabitha King was murdered?”
“Not necessarily, but if Tabitha noticed objects missing, wouldn’t she have reported it to the police?”
“She didn’t. I would have heard. But I think she’d have mentioned it to Lady Barbara.”
“Then why didn’t Lady Barbara contact the police? I’m going to have to ask her that, too.”
“Planting the fear of burglary in her mind?”
“Mugg’s already done that. He’s been trying to talk her out of the exhibit on the grounds that it’s too much of a risk.”
I thought of the ivory figurine taken from the National Trust property near Lowestoft. No break-in. No holdup. Sleight of hand, and no one noticed until it was too late.
“The thing is, Tom. Mugg could be right.”
Chapter Thirteen
Thursday, December 10th
The late-afternoon sun pooled on the bare floor of my room at the Stables. I propped a pillow behind me on the love seat and swung my feet up, feeling a pull in my lower back. I’d spent most of the day carrying objects from the safe on the lower level to the display space on the ground floor. Nothing was heavy, but I’d gone up and down those stairs enough times to merit several gold stars at the gym. And a couple of Advil.
Luckily, I’d found the cache of white cotton gloves Tabitha had purchased from a museum supply website. Oils on the human hand will damage metals over time, and these objects had to be protected. She’d also researched and used time-tested and time-consuming methods for cleaning and conserving objects of gold, silver, and bronze, meticulously documenting each step. She’d done all the preparatory work. All I had to do was follow her plan.
Following Tabitha’s plan was a joy. During the last few days, I’d marveled over her sense of proportion, color, and form. She’d seemed to know instinctively which objects would appear to best advantage when grouped with others and which would shine best in their own space. I’d felt energized by the buzz I always experience when handling fine antiques. The only spoiler was my concern over the brazen theft at Lowestoft. And my unsettling experience with the Finchley Cross.
A great loss.
What was I supposed to make of that?
I don’t like things I can’t explain—like my daughter’s relationship with the feckless Tristan Sorel. The previous evening Tom and I had been cuddled on the gray sofa in the Commons when Christine and Tristan showed up, happy and in love again after a rollicking Quiz Night at the Finchley Arms.
“Guess what the final question was.” Christine, teetering on her impractical high-heeled boots, didn’t wait for us to guess. She flung out an arm and adopted a voice that sounded remarkably like Stephen Peacock at the Arms. “Final question: Wot is Johnny Depp afraid of?” Hooting, she grabbed Tristan’s shoulder for support.
“Well,” I said. “What is he afraid of?”
“Clowns,” Tristan said, sending Christine into fits of laughter.
She gasped for breath. “After all those scary people he’s played in the movies, he’s afraid of clowns.”
“Aren’t we all?” Tom had whispered in my ear, making me laugh, too.
Outside, somewhere on the lawn, a blackbird chattered.
My phone rang. Tom—as if my thoughts had conjured him.
“Thought I’d give you a quick call,” he said. “Cliffe and I are on our way to police headquarters at Martlesham Heath. The press are camped outside, and Chief Superintendent Rollins is getting twitchy. He’s eager to hold a press conference, but we have nothing concrete to tell them. Strategy session in the morning.”
“Any progress at all?”
“DNA testing is set for the sixteenth. At the moment we’re searching the databases for similar murders in the surrounding counties. No matches so far. How are things in Long Barston?”
“Quiet if you don’t count the press. No more reports of strangers, Spanish-looking or otherwise.”
“Good. If he’s left the area, the rumors will stop. How’s the work going?”
“Great. Done for the day. Will I see you tonight?”
“Afraid not—nor the next. We received a tip that the thieves who stole the ivory figurine at the National Trust property are part of an organized gang. I hate to say it, but they may be headed our way. After Martlesham Heath, Cliffe and I will drive over to Lowestoft. I’m sorry, Kate. After that, things should settle down.”
“Will you be back for the Peasants’ Revolt on Sunday? I’m looking forward to the reenactment.”
“Wouldn’t miss it. But let’s cut out early, all right?”
“Nothing I’d like better.”
The warm glow I felt would tide me over until Sunday.
I eased off the love seat, praying my back didn’t seize up. I knew how Tom felt, being pressed for information he didn’t have. Lady Barbara had invited me for a light supper before the Peasants’ Revolt reenactment on Sunday. She and Vivian were sure to ask what I’d learned about the stranger. I had nothing to tell them they didn’t already know.
Leave no stone unturned—my mother’s mantra when it came to research. Follow every trail, open every door. When you come to a dead end, go over the whole thing again.
I sighed. A walk to the village would do me good.
Most of the press cars had departed in search of the latest headline. The shock of Tabitha’s murder was receding. Life in Long Barston was slowly getting back to normal.
I stopped first at the Three Magpies. Neither Jayne nor Gavin had seen the stranger again.
“I must say, we haven’t been paying attention.” Jayne’s bright smile told me business was on the upswing. “Gav’s making some wonderful food for the party after the Peasants’ Revolt. Sadly, we won’t be able to attend. We’re full up with overnight guests.”
Second stop, the Finchley Arms. The place was already crowded with villagers stopping off for a drink before heading home. I ordered a glass of sparkling water with lime (impossible to ruin) and sipped slowly as I sat at the bar.
Briony Peacock was washing glasses. She eyed me with suspicion. “Wot’cher doin’ ’ere then?”
“I wondered if you or your husband had seen the stranger again?”
“Scarpered off, ’asn’t ’e?” she said knowingly. “Too ’ot fer ’im with the press and police swarming the village.”
She was probably right. Even if the stranger had simply wandered into the wrong place at the wrong time, he would have been spooked by all the activity. Loners don’t like attention.
I finished my water. Maybe Ivor Tweedy had heard something new.
Leaving the Finchley Arms, I turned up the collar of my coat. The wind bit my cheeks and turned my fingers to ice. The possibility of snow was forecast.
Ivor Tweedy’s shop was closed. A sign on the door said OPEN BY CHANCE OR APPOINTMENT. I stood on the walk, wondering what to do next, when I remembered promising Michael Nash I’d stop by the Rare Breeds Farm. Michael had actually spoken with Tabitha about the stranger. Maybe there was some small detail he’d forgotten to mention.
No stone unturned.
* * *
I found Michael mucking out the pigsty. From an adjoining pen, a huge sow with black spots on rust-colored skin observed this atrocity with ill-concealed outrage. Michael wore high rubber boots, gloves with gauntlets covering his forearms, and a thick woolen sweater under his green quilted vest. The smell was unbelievable, but he didn’t seem to notice. His ears and upturned nose were red with the cold and his hair shaggier than ever.
“Hello, Mrs. H,” he said, wiping his nose with his upper arm. “Meet Judith, a Sandy and Black. And that distinguished gentleman”—he indicated an incredibly shaggy donkey staring at us over the fence—“is Casper.”
“He’s got dreadlocks,” I said. “And beautiful eyes.”
>
“He’s a Poitou, one of the rarest donkey breeds in the world. Scholars believe they came over with the Romans. Only about sixty in the UK.”
Michael plunged his fork into a pile of straw and manure and pulled off his gloves. He opened the gate so Judith could reoccupy her pen and then jumped the fence before she could take her revenge. “I wish I had more animals to show you. The sheep and the bullocks are in the pasture right now. I might be able to scare up some chickens.”
We walked toward the barnyard, where a handful of chickens happily pecked the ground.
“They’re Dorkings,” Michael said. “The oldest breed of chicken in England.”
The male, a handsome fellow with black-and-white markings and a huge red comb, strutted around the females with their more modest coloring.
“Dorkings have two unusual features.” Michael grabbed a handful of pellets from a trough and scattered them on the ground. “Five toes instead of four. And they’re the only chicken with red earlobes that lays white eggs instead of brown.” He grinned and threw another handful of pellets into the yard.
“Michael, you told me earlier that Tabitha saw a stranger near the Folly. When exactly was that?”
“I don’t know when she actually saw him. She told me about it the night before she … well, you know.”
“Did she say anything else—like what the man looked like or what direction he was headed?”
Michael furrowed his brow. “I don’t remember—” He broke off. “Hold on. She did mention seeing someone wearing sunglasses, but she wasn’t sure if they were together or just in the same place at the same time.”
“That’s helpful. Anything else—anything at all?”
“Ask Mugg. Maybe she told him something—that is, if she got the chance before she was … well, before she died.” His puckish face fell.
“I will. How about Prue? Has she said anything more about Tabitha?”
That brought a grin. “You can ask her yourself.”
A small red-and-black Mini honked as it circled into a gravel parking area on the other side of the barn. The door opened and Prue Goody clambered out.