by Connie Berry
“Quite an expense for Lady Barbara.”
“Oh, the villagers do everything these days. Women bake. The village shop donates paper products. Both pubs contribute food, plus the Café Bistro and the Chinese takeaway—you must try the spring rolls, by the way. Right over there, next to the chicken tenders.” She made a face. “I’d skip those if I were you.”
From the Finchley Arms, no doubt.
“The Peasants’ Revolt is a community effort,” Vivian continued. “Kickoff for the holiday season. And this year, with the Hoard exhibit, people will come from all over East Anglia.”
The interns had gathered in the center of the room. Tristan’s arm was draped over Christine’s shoulder, but I noticed his eyes frequently wandered to Alex Devereux. I couldn’t blame him. She looked devastating in black velvet leggings with spiky shoes and a silky top. Even Peter Ingham couldn’t keep his eyes off her.
Alex lifted a purple clipboard. “Let’s go over the assignments one more time. Christine, you and Prue will lend a hand with the food service. You’ll have plenty of help from the Women’s Auxiliary.” She frowned at Prue Goody, who wore a long, shapeless dress in rough gray, linenlike fabric with Birkenstocks and woolly socks. “Is that really the best you could do, Prue? You look like a walrus.”
“Shut up,” Christine said tightly. “You look like a tart.”
Alex huffed. “The truth hurts.”
“It’s not the truth. It’s rude and unkind.” Michael Nash moved next to Prue, whose round cheeks had turned a bright pink.
“We’re representing Lady Barbara,” Alex said. “You know— elegance, sophistication.”
“I think Prue looks fine. Wonderful, in fact.”
“How sweet,” Alex said, making a face. “In that case, you won’t mind staying in the house with her. You can check in the coats. There’s a rack in the library with numbers to give out.”
Michael flushed. “I was supposed to help with the torch parade.”
“Tristan will do that, won’t you?” Alex flashed him a brilliant smile. “And Peter, you’ll be outdoors as well, directing guests. We want them to take the path around the walled garden rather than through it. You’ll both need hand torches. Any problems, call my mobile.”
They scattered.
“That girl is trouble.” Vivian made a moue of distaste. “A little too popular with the male interns. I warned Lady Barbara.”
“Where is Lady Barbara, by the way?”
“That’s part of the tradition. She remains upstairs until the peasants arrive. They demand an audience with the Lady of the Manor. She descends the grand staircase and announces an increase in the rents. They call for her to be drawn and quartered. Then everyone makes a mad dash for the drawing room, and the party begins.”
“With the interns taking the part of servants, I suppose.”
“That was Cedru’s idea. He decided the interns could fill in with a few extra duties. Saves hiring temps.”
Since Vivian had brought up the subject of Cedru fforde, I decided to run with it. “The day we met, you made a reference to Cedru not being there for his son. Why was that?”
Vivian eyed me. “I suppose you may as well know the whole story.”
The whole story involved mental illness.
“In his twenties Cedru fforde developed symptoms of bipolar disorder, undiagnosed until years later.” She lifted the foil from a plate of stuffed mushrooms. “Sample?” I declined. She took a bite and chewed thoughtfully. “His depressions never lasted long, and in his manic state, with increased energy and activity, he seemed to function well. After his marriage, Finchley Hall became the focus of his interest. He hired workmen to repair the plumbing, the heating system, the roof. All of it needed to be done, you understand, but he spared no expense. The best or nothing was his motto.”
She popped the other half of the mushroom in her mouth. “At a time when most privately owned estates were devising schemes to stay afloat—you know the kind of thing: tours, lecture series, safari parks, holiday cottages—Cedru decided on the internship program. He hired a firm of London architects to turn the old stable block into housing and contacted universities all over England, promising to find meaningful work opportunities for bright students who wanted hands-on experience. At the same time, his health was getting worse. During his manic episodes, which sometimes lasted for months then, he hardly slept.”
We moved to the windows that looked out toward the park. Tiny winking lights bobbed in the distance. The torch parade was making its way to the house. I pictured Sir Oswyn standing at a similar window, watching the approach of death.
Christine and Prue were busy removing cling film and aluminum foil from the food.
“Eventually,” Vivian continued, “Cedru’s depressions became longer and his manic episodes more intense. In the end he was suicidal. Dementia took hold, and he died, leaving Lady Barbara with heavy debts and limited resources. That was twenty years ago. If you ask me, it was the death of Catherine Kerr and the loss of his son that precipitated his final decline.”
“Vivian.” I looked at her, trying to convey the compassion I felt. “Does Lady Barbara believe Lucien has come back?”
Vivian hesitated before speaking. “She’s certain he has not but fears he has. There’s no evidence, you understand. The note wasn’t signed. What’s worrying her is the fact that bipolar disorder has a genetic component.”
“You mean Lucien could be suffering from mental illness, like his father.”
“Perhaps.” Vivian set her lips in a straight line. “If Lucien has come home, he may not be mentally stable.”
“Oh, look.” Christine, Prue, and Michael stood at the window. The bobbing lights in the distance gathered in clusters before stringing out again, growing more distinct as they came nearer.
“They’re in the park now,” Michael said. “Won’t be much longer.”
“Come on, Prue,” Christine said. “Better put on our frilly aprons.”
“Wait, look.” Michael said. “Something’s happening.”
He was right. Instead of a loose column, the torch lights had become a single dancing blob. We watched in silence as the blob winked and glowed. Then a single torch broke away and moved quickly toward the house.
Minutes later, a man dressed in medieval hose, tunic, and cap burst into the entrance hall. “Call the police,” he gasped. “There’s a body.”
Mugg sprinted up the staircase.
Just in time to catch Lady Barbara, who’d fainted.
* * *
Within minutes of the phone call, the local constables arrived, followed shortly by Tom, Sergeant Cliffe, and a crime scene team.
I sat in the drawing room with Lady Barbara, Vivian, and the interns. The food had been carted off to the kitchen. The punch fountains had been turned off, leaving pools of tropical-colored liquid warming to room temperature.
Edmund Foxe, the dishy vicar of St. Æthelric’s, arrived to see if Lady Barbara needed help. He was good-looking—and fit. They sat on one of the green serpentine sofas. I would have liked to introduce myself, but he and Lady Barbara were deep in conversation. She twisted a white handkerchief in her hands. His hands were folded on one knee, not quite in prayer.
Mugg hovered behind her, gray-faced and solemn.
Christine walked to the windows, then turned and sat back down. Prue crossed and uncrossed her legs. Michael sat beside her, looking lost. Tristan was doing something on his cell phone—either texting or playing a game. Peter stood near the windows. Vivian tutted occasionally in disapproval.
Waiting was brutal.
“This is very bad,” Tristan said, stating the obvious. He sat beside Christine on the other green serpentine sofa. “I saw it, you know. The man was lying there. I’m sure he was dead.”
“Let’s not speculate until we hear from the police,” I said.
Lady Barbara put the handkerchief to her mouth.
“Do you need a glass of water, madam?” Mugg said. “Or tea perhaps?”
>
When she didn’t respond, I said, “Tea, I think. We could all use tea.”
Mugg left the room—glad, I imagined, to have something useful to do. I would have liked to do something as well. Like join Tom at the crime scene, but we’d been told to stay put.
They finally came—Tom, Sergeant Cliffe, and Constable Wheeler.
I assumed Tom would interview us individually as he had after Tabitha’s death. Instead he said, “Constable Wheeler will take your statements. Meanwhile, Lady Barbara, is there somewhere we might speak in private?”
She clutched the arm of her chair. “Viv, Kate—I need you.” She looked at Tom, her face pinched. “If it’s all right. It’s just that I … that I …” She broke off with a sob.
With Tom following, Vivian and I each took an arm and propelled Lady Barbara gently down the hall and into her sitting room. Mugg brought a tea tray, and Vivian poured out. Lady Barbara gripped her cup as if it were a life preserver, but she didn’t drink.
Mugg added logs to the fire, which had burned down to ash and embers.
Tom sat beside Lady Barbara on the sofa. “The man in the Folly is dead.” His voice was calm and kind. “We won’t know how he died until the coroner runs tests, but we suspect he may have been poisoned. He matches the description of the stranger seen recently in the area.”
“Did he have any identification?” Vivian asked.
“No ID, but the labels on his clothing were written in Spanish.”
Lady Barbara’s teacup slid to the floor and smashed.
Chapter Seventeen
Monday, December 14th
Vivian and I accompanied Lady Barbara to the coroner’s office in the West Suffolk Hospital, about a mile and a half southwest of police headquarters in Bury St. Edmonds. The day was overcast, a fitting reflection of our moods. Tom ushered us into the lobby. A security guard opened a door leading to a long hallway tiled in gray linoleum.
“He can’t be Lucien,” Lady Barbara said for the fourth or fifth time that morning. “I received a letter from him two weeks ago. Everything was fine. No mention of a trip to England. He was doing well, working hard. He’d had an opportunity to invest in a local business and wanted my advice. “
And your money. “Maybe the letter was delayed.”
“Or lost in the mail and then forwarded,” Vivian added. “That happens.”
Lady Barbara’s eyes filled. “But Kate said it—if the man was Lucien, he would have come to the Hall as soon as he arrived. He knows how terribly I miss him.” She glared at Tom. “I blame the police. My son had nothing to do with the death of Catherine Kerr. I told you so at the time, but you wouldn’t listen. Not you personally. I mean the detective then—Evans. Lucien had his faults, I accept that. But he wasn’t a killer.”
“You may be right,” Tom said.
“I am right,” she said fiercely. “The police badgered him so ruthlessly he had to leave England. He was afraid you would take him up for a crime he didn’t commit.” She covered her face with her gloved hands.
We arrived at a small waiting room with a sofa and chairs upholstered in beige tweed. Framed photos of seascapes hung on the walls. A Bible sat on the table in the corner.
“Make yourself comfortable,” Tom said. “The coroner should be ready soon.”
He left through a door at the far end of the room. Lady Barbara sat on the sofa with Vivian beside her. She clutched her handbag. Her feet pointed straight ahead.
If the man found dead was Lucien Finchley-fforde, at least Lady Barbara could bury her son in the churchyard. Small comfort.
I took the chair on the other side. “Tell me about the death of Catherine Kerr. Were there other suspects?”
“The police interviewed everyone,” Vivian said. “No connection to the murdered woman was found. And no motive.”
“Including Lucien,” Lady Barbara said with surprising force. “They never found a single piece of evidence against him.”
“Why was he the prime suspect?”
“First was the fact that he didn’t have an alibi for the time of murder. The girl was killed sometime between eight and ten PM. Lucien told the police he’d walked into the village. He’d planned to stop at the Finchley Arms but decided against it. He didn’t see anyone and couldn’t remember exactly where he’d walked.”
“Well, you don’t, do you,” Vivian said, “when you’ve done nothing wrong. That should have counted in his favor. If he’d been guilty, he’d have concocted a clever alibi.”
“And the second reason?”
“Like his father, my son was an exceptionally handsome man. It got him into trouble.”
True enough. Beauty attracts admiration, desire, jealousy. I’d seen those emotions on Christine’s face more than once. I’d seen them on Alex Devereux’s face when she looked at Peter Ingham. But not, curiously, when he looked at her.
Lady Barbara rummaged in her handbag and brought out a fresh handkerchief. “Catherine and Lucien had been seeing a lot of each other in the days leading up to her death, so naturally the police questioned him first. I don’t blame them for that. I do blame them for the rest—taking him into custody, holding him overnight, the brutal interrogation. They assumed a lovers’ quarrel, but it wasn’t true. My son had a gentle soul. He would never have harmed her.”
For the first time, she’d referred to her son in the past tense. “Did Lucien mention anyone else—a rival, perhaps?”
“There wasn’t anyone else. No one at all.”
The door at the far end of the room opened.
“We’re ready for you now,” Tom said.
Lady Barbara reached out for our hands. “Stay with me, please. I can’t do this alone.”
The viewing room wasn’t all clinical tile and stainless steel as I’d imagined. It looked more like a motel room. A sign on the door said CHAPEL OF REST. The colors were soothing, the lights mellow. A body, covered by a sheet, lay on a draped platform.
Lady Barbara clutched my arm.
“Steady on, Barbara,” Vivian said.
The coroner’s assistant, a small man with dark eyebrows and a speckled goatee, pulled back the sheet.
Lady Barbara made a small strangled sound.
Vivian took a step back and covered her mouth.
Was I staring at the bloated face of Lucien Finchley-fforde? I wouldn’t have called him handsome, but then a quarter century had passed, and his death obviously hadn’t been easy. Sallow skin lay slack along his jawline. His nose, threaded with broken capillaries, looked too large for his face. Dark, puffy circles under his eyes looked purple in the artificial light.
Lady Barbara leaned over the body. She bent down until her face was only inches from his. Removing the glove from her right hand, she ran her fingertips over the contours of the face, feeling the nose, the mouth, the closed eyes. She did it again. And again.
The antiseptic smell brought a rush of nausea.
However I’d expected her to react, this wasn’t it.
How much could she see? What was she feeling? I stood ready to catch her if she went down, but this time she didn’t faint.
Instead, she straightened up and looked directly at Tom. “This isn’t Lucien, Inspector. This man is not my son.”
Chapter Eighteen
The Trout, an ancient pub outside Saxby St. Clare, was everything Tom had said it would be and more. Low ceilinged, cozy, and—best of all—no jukebox. We’d shared a fabulous dinner of crab ravioli and lamb kebabs with pomegranate-seed rice and yogurt dressing. At present we were curled up on an ancient leather sofa near the roaring fire, drinking cognac from small lead-crystal glasses.
“This was such a good idea. Thank you.” I kissed the side of his neck, breathing in the woodsy scent of his aftershave. They say the sense of smell has a direct link to the brain’s pleasure center. I believe it. That scent would be imprinted on my brain forever.
He slid his hand down the back of my hair. “We both needed to get away.”
Yes, we di
d, and the one thing we didn’t need was an argument about his mother. Call me a chicken, but the decision to postpone telling him about the Suffolk Rose Tea Room was easy. Besides, Liz obviously hadn’t told him either. That gave me hope. “Do you think Lady Barbara can be right about the dead man not being her son?” I asked him.
“She is his mother. But then she hasn’t seen Lucien in more than twenty years, and she admits her eyesight is poor. The dead man fits the basic description we’ve been given of Lucien—age, coloring.”
“Have you spoken with Mr. Tweedy? Nothing wrong with his eyesight.”
“I’ll do that. For now, we’ve sent photos, fingerprints, and DNA samples through Interpol to the authorities in Caracas.”
“Wouldn’t it be quicker to take a sample from Lady Barbara?”
“She flatly refused, insisting she has no connection whatsoever with the dead man. A response from Venezuela may take some time. The police are underpaid, poorly trained, and often corrupt. The infrastructure is unstable. Life is dangerous. People are fleeing the country by the thousands. Lucien Finchley-fforde may have decided his safest course was to return home and face an investigation.”
“Well, if the dead man is Lucien, the question becomes who killed him—and why?”
“There’s always the possibility of suicide.” Tom stretched his legs toward the fire. “Maybe he decided he couldn’t face an investigation after all.”
“Lady Barbara said the police found no evidence against him. Was she right?”
“I spent time yesterday reading through the file. The only evidence was circumstantial. He had been seeing the girl, Catherine Kerr—he admitted it. Witnesses had seen them arguing, and he had a reputation for violence. The previous year a young woman in Cambridge had accused him of assault. Never proven, and she withdrew the complaint, but there was a history—brawls, vandalism, that kind of thing. Unfortunately, Lucien fled, and that added to the perception of guilt.”
“Why didn’t the police ask the Venezuelan authorities to send him back?”
“They did, but that country has no extradition treaty with the UK—probably why he chose it. He arrived in Caracas and dropped out of sight.”