by Connie Berry
“Hi, Michael. Oh, hello, Mrs. Hamilton.” Prue’s hair hung in long twisted coils. She wore a full linen blouse under a long reddish dress, trimmed in braid and tied around the waist with a length of rope. The upper part of the dress, two squares of coarse fabric, was held together at the shoulders by fibula brooches—reproductions, of course. Strands of glass beads hung around her neck.
“My costume,” she said. “Not very flattering, but we try to be as authentic as possible.”
“I think you look great,” Michael said. “You’d fit right in with the tenth century. I mean … well, I didn’t mean …” He blushed furiously.
“I know what you mean,” Prue said. “And thank you.”
“Mrs. H is asking about Tabitha,” he said, changing the subject.
“Did Tabitha say anything to you about the stranger near the Folly?” I asked.
“Not a word. Of course, we didn’t have much interaction after she moved into her own room.”
“How about her work on the Hoard? Did she talk about that?”
“Not much. I was busy studying the Anglo-Saxon period at the time. There’s a lot to learn.”
“What do you do in the village?”
“I’m a domestic. I hang out in the houses and do stuff like cooking over the fire. We’re not expected to be experts, but we’re supposed to stay in period as much as we can.”
“You and Tabitha never talked about your work?”
“I wouldn’t say never. She brought a book home one day—about the history of the Hoard. She pored over it for days.”
“Did she learn anything interesting?”
“I don’t know, but she was puzzled about something. I asked her one time, like ‘What’s the matter?’ or something, and she said, ‘There’s a discrepancy, and I can’t figure it out.’ We never talked about it again.”
“Come on,” Michael said. “I’ve got to get cleaned up.”
“Too right,” Prue said, laughing. “You’re not riding in my car until you’ve had a long, hot bath and changed clothes.”
“See you tonight?” Michael asked me.
“Of course. See you then.”
It wasn’t much. Someone wearing sunglasses. A book about the Hoard. And, most intriguing, a discrepancy.
Chapter Fourteen
Friday, December 11th
I stood in the middle of the exhibit hall, surveying my handiwork. About half the Hoard items were now in their assigned places. Barring unknown factors, I would complete my part of the exhibit well before the opening. Leaving time for Tom—if he did have a free evening—and for the festivities marking St. Æthelric’s Eve. I was looking forward to that.
A communal dinner in the Commons the previous night had turned out to be fun and encouragingly drama-free. We played darts—I discovered a latent talent for eye–hand coordination. Christine and Tristan appeared blissfully happy. Only Peter Ingham seemed out of sorts, and I wondered if he was ever in sorts. Even Alex behaved herself, keeping her hands off Tristan and treating Christine and Prue with only mild disdain.
I was positioning a small Elizabethan manicure set made of iron and bone in one of the display cases when my cell phone rang. I raced to pick up, hoping it was Tom, calling to say he’d be free tonight after all.
It was Liz Mallory.
“Hello, Kate. Feeling better?”
“I am, thanks. I’m on the English clock now. I’m sorry I had to leave so abruptly.” I winced as my conscience reminded me that I wasn’t sorry at all.
“I shouldn’t have dragged things out so long.”
“Not your fault.”
“I know we didn’t start on the right footing, dear. I’m afraid I didn’t put things very well. So easy to misunderstand, isn’t it?”
If this was an apology, I wouldn’t want to see a reconciliation. Liz was basically blaming me for taking her the wrong way. I didn’t respond.
“Anyway,” she went on breezily, “I was wondering if you had time today to get together. Just the two of us. I know Tom is off on some assignment, but perhaps you’d join me for lunch or tea in the village. I’ll be in Long Barston anyway to pick up some dry cleaning.”
Oh, man. “Today? I’m working on the Hoard exhibit.”
“Just a half hour or so? We could meet at the Suffolk Rose—that’s the tearoom near the bridge. They do a lovely cream tea.”
I thought of Tom and his willingness to overlook Christine’s rudeness the night they met.
“That would be lovely.”
“How about three o’clock? You’ll still have time to get back to your work.”
* * *
The Suffolk Rose Tea Room was as pretty as its name. The building, a pale-pink roughcast with a dark scalloped roofline and green shutters, sat on the edge of the River Stour. An outside terrace along the water was closed for the season. Inside, the place looked more like a Suffolk grandmother’s parlor than a commercial establishment. Chairs of every description were grouped around low tables covered in snowy-white linen cloths. Landscapes and genre paintings of country life hung on the wall. A cupboard displayed a collection of Depression-era teapots.
I found Liz Mallory waiting for me at a table near the deep-set window. She wore a pair of slim wool slacks and a black jacket that highlighted her thick silver hair.
“Kate.” She stood to greet me. “I’m so glad you could make it. My treat today.”
“That’s not necessary, but thank you.”
“You’re been working hard on the exhibit.”
“I wouldn’t say hard—just steadily. I want to be able to enjoy the Eve of St. Æthelric without worrying about getting everything done.”
“It’s going well?” Liz handed me a folded menu. “I’ve already ordered the Mini Traditional—a sampling of everything. Hope that’s all right. I thought it would save you time.”
“Perfect. And yes, things are going well. I’m working through Tabitha King’s plan bit by bit and enjoying the process. I’ve truly never seen objects like these outside a museum.”
“Some of us think that’s where they should be. If Lady Barbara’s son does return to England one day, I can only imagine what will happen to them. Pay for his gambling debts or something equally unsavory.”
Hmm. I thought she didn’t approve of gossip.
An apron-clad waitress brought a three-tiered glass tray with a selection of dainty sandwiches and miniature scones with clotted cream and raspberry jam. She left and returned with a pot of tea, cream and sugar, and two rose-sprigged cups and saucers.
Liz smiled at me. “I’ll pour out, shall I?” She did, using a silver tea strainer. Then she replaced the quilted tea cozy and lifted her cup.
We spent fifteen minutes or so chatting about the weather, the stained-glass windows in the church, the crowds expected for the Hoard exhibit, and the press who’d just about given up on a quick resolution to the murder. I hated to be suspicious, but I couldn’t help feeling she was biding her time. Or gathering courage.
Finally, after we’d worked our way through all the sandwiches and most of the scones, she turned her cool gray eyes on me and said, “Have you and Tom talked about the future?”
I almost choked on my tea. “Liz,” I said, because we’d agreed to call each other by our first names, “I don’t want to be rude, but I don’t feel comfortable discussing my relationship with Tom.” Gulp.
I expected her to flare up. Instead she folded her hands and said in a quiet voice, “I know it’s none of my business, but I can’t help being concerned.”
“About what?”
“Well, about your differences, for one thing. You’re American. He’s English. You have a business to run and a mother to care for in her old age. Tom has his career.” Had she bugged my phone? “Did you know he’s been put up for detective chief inspector?” I didn’t but wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of saying so. “Tom is a gifted policeman, Kate. He could be chief superintendent one day.”
“I’m sure he c
ould.”
“Don’t you see? When you think about it, you and Tom have no future. I’m sure that meeting as you did, thrown together in the wilds of Scotland, was very romantic. But real life is entirely different. Are you prepared to give up everything and move to England?”
I put down my napkin. “What Tom and I decide about our future, Liz, is for us to figure out. And why do you assume I’d be the one to move?” I regretted saying that the moment the words left my mouth. I was handing her bullets.
“Oh, Kate.” She shook her head sadly. “If you think that, you’re setting yourself up for disappointment. Tom will never leave England. And, I may as well say it, he’ll never marry again.”
I stared at her, unable to speak.
“The reason I asked to meet you today was to warn you. You’re a good person. I can see that. Believe me, I know how attractive Tom is. Single women all over Suffolk have tried their hand with him. Even after I moved in, they would bring over cakes and curries. Suddenly there were so many extra tickets—for the symphony or the art show or the village fête. I’m thinking of you, dear.” She reached across the table and placed her hand on mine.
“No, you’re not.” I stood, knocking against the table and sending tea sloshing onto the white cloth. “You’re thinking of yourself. You’re afraid you’ll lose him. And that, I’m not sorry to say, is none of my concern. Thank you for the tea. Don’t bother calling me again.”
I shook as I slid my arms into my coat.
What had I done?
And how was I ever going to explain it to Tom?
Chapter Fifteen
Sunday, December 13th
The Eve of St. Æthelric
How I slept that night, I’ll never know. Emotional exhaustion, maybe. Or more likely to shut out the thought that Liz Mallory was right and any future I’d imagined with her son was fantasy.
Now, with the morning sun slanting through my window, I lay in bed and went over our conversation in my mind. I wasn’t proud of the way I’d reacted—even though she’d had it coming. The bells of St. Æthelric’s pealed, calling parishioners to Sunday service. I closed my eyes and took in the majestic strains of “Come, Thou Almighty King.”
I’d have to tell Tom about my disastrous meeting with his mother. I would, as soon as he got back from Lowestoft.
Flinging off the duvet, I sprang to my feet. Time to face the day.
I spent the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon in the archives building. The church bells rang again at four. Tom called just as I was leaving.
“On my way. See you at the Hall around eight if traffic isn’t too bad.”
Should I tell him? He obviously hadn’t spoken with his mother yet.
“Perfect. Drive safely.” Coward.
Walking back to the Stables, I consoled myself with the thought that confessions are best made in person.
Gravel crunched under my feet. The annual recreation of the Peasants’ Revolt of 1549 was, I’d been told, one of Long Barston’s most cherished traditions. In a little more than an hour, I’d join Lady Barbara and Vivian for a light supper. Then, at eight o’clock, a hundred or so villagers would gather in St. Æthelric’s churchyard, switch on faux-flame torches, and snake their way along the footpath through Finchley Park to the Hall. There they would be greeted, not with screams of terror and pleas for mercy, but with overflowing platters of finger food, kegs of the local Suffolk ale, and a wicked spiked punch. Every year on the anniversary of the revolt, the inhabitants of Long Barston commemorated the burning of the Hall, the burying of the Hoard, and the death of Sir Oswyn with good-natured jibes about bringing real torches next year and overthrowing the ruling class. And every year Lady Barbara, who wasn’t ruling anything, would demand an increase in the rents no longer paid.
Highlight of the holiday season, apparently. And here was me, picturing carolers and horse-drawn sleigh rides.
Anyway, that was later. For now, I had a few moments to relax and think about what I’d tell Lady Barbara about the stranger—and about my suspicion that some of the Hoard items were missing. What I’d learned was vague, to say the least. Tabitha had listed eleven objects I couldn’t identify. She’d made an offhand comment about a discrepancy. And she’d seen a man in sunglasses who might or might not have been with the stranger near the Folly.
Vaguest of all was my impression that something at the crime scene hadn’t been right. I hadn’t thought about it in days and decided not to mention it. Nor would I mention the theft at the National Trust property near Lowestoft. I needed solid evidence.
Sometimes, when you wish for something, you get it.
* * *
“You’re saying there’s no way to find out who this man is?” Lady Barbara took a bite of cold roast beef.
Lady Barbara, Vivian, and I sat in her sitting room around a drop-leaf table in front of the fire. Mugg, as usual, hovered behind Lady Barbara. The same blonde maid wearing the same too-large black dress and white apron bustled in and out.
“I didn’t say it’s impossible. I said it won’t be easy. People in the village have run into him a few times, but no one—as far as I know—has actually spoken to him. Now that he hasn’t been seen for a couple of days, there’s a good chance he’s moved on.”
Lady Barbara looked stricken. “So we might never know.”
Vivian tsked and Fergus, who lay under the table, snorted.
“Maybe not knowing isn’t a bad thing.” I was trying to make sense of an odd atmosphere in the room. “If the stranger has left the area, you’ll never know who he was, true. But the villagers will eventually stop talking about him, and the rumors will die of neglect.”
Vivian reached down to hook Fergus’s lead to his collar. “I need to change into something more suitable before the Revolt.” She was wearing the same baggy tweed skirt and sweater-set she’d been wearing the day Fergus had decided to chase ducks. I couldn’t imagine her in anything else at this point.
“Thank you anyway, Kate.” Lady Barbara folded her napkin in thirds. Her long, slender fingers trembled. “I’m sure you did your best.”
“I’d like to ask something,” I said quickly, before my opportunity vanished. Or my courage. I’d already been rebuked by Tom’s mother for poking my nose into Lady Barbara’s business. This was Lady Barbara herself, with her own listing in Burke’s Peerage. No nation on earth is more reserved than the British. Most people don’t wear their hearts on their sleeves in public. The British, as Bill used to say, don’t even wear them around the house.
Lady Barbara and Vivian stared at me.
Here goes nothing. “If the stranger in the village is your son—that’s what the rumors are about, right?—he would contact you. But he hasn’t. That’s proof right there that he’s not Lucien.”
Vivian bit her lip. Lady Barbara studied her lap. Was I going mad, or did both elderly women look guilty—again?
“I’m afraid I wasn’t entirely honest with you.” Lady Barbara looked up at me through her pale eyelashes. She stood and moved to a pretty satinwood side table. She opened the drawer, removed a piece of folded paper, and handed it to me.
WE MUST TALK. TOMORROW 7 PM THE FOLLY. The handwriting was loopy, almost childlike. I looked at Lady Barbara. “Is this your son’s handwriting?”
“I can’t be sure. I haven’t seen his handwriting for many years.”
“But you’ve been receiving letters from him.”
“Typed. Only the signature is handwritten. Mugg reads the letters to me now, anyway.” She glanced toward a dark corner of the room where Mugg stood like a statue.
I’d forgotten all about his presence.
I handed the note to Mugg. He squinted at it over his wire-framed glasses. “I would have to check, madam.”
“We’ll do that later,” Lady Barbara said with an air of finality. She took the note and put it back in the drawer. “The torch parade is about to begin.”
“But when did you get the note?” Unsolved mysteries make me c
razy.
“Last Sunday. Mrs. Rumple, the cook, found an envelope addressed to me on the bench near the kitchen door.”
A week ago. The same night Lady Barbara had asked me to look into the identity of the stranger. “Do you still have the envelope?”
“I threw it away.”
“What happened? Did you meet him?” This was becoming more and more fantastic. Then I remembered Lady Barbara’s eyesight. “Wait a minute. How did you get there on your own?”
“Vivian went with me.” She looked at her friend. “It was Mugg’s evening off. Just as well. I decided a man might frighten him away. Vivian had a torch. I had a rolling pin. “
The thought of two elderly women creeping around in the dark with a flashlight and a rolling pin might have been funny if it wasn’t so frightening. “And?”
“And he never showed up.”
Chapter Sixteen
That evening, Finchley Hall’s formal drawing room felt very different from the silent, cavernous place where, more than a week ago, I’d waited with the other members of the tour group after Tabitha’s death. A Christmas tree stood in front of the tall front windows. The green serpentine sofas were gone, making room for several tables piled high with platters of food covered in aluminum foil and cling film. The adjoining entrance hall, three times larger than any room in my house, had been set up as a bar with several kinds of local ale on tap along with two elaborate punch fountains.
I stood with Vivian, watching the final preparations before the arrival of the torch parade.
“You’ll want to watch out for the punch on the left.” Vivian indicated a fountain filled with a pink concoction. “Looks innocent. More than two glasses and you’ll be dancing on the tables.”
Personal experience? “How many people will be here tonight?”
She adjusted the bow on her cream silk blouse. “Most of the village. Not all at the same time, of course. The torch parade arrives first. Others drift in and out. The whole thing’s over by nine.”