by Connie Berry
“What about the gardener, Arthur Gedge—the one who found Catherine Kerr’s body in Blackwater Lake? Was he ever a suspect?”
“He had an alibi. Can’t remember what it was now. I’ll check. I know DI Evans was convinced Lucien was the killer.”
“Is Evans still alive? Could you ask him why?”
“He died ten years ago. All that remains is the file. I plan to read it again, but I don’t think it will help. If the dead man is Lucien, the biggest question is, why didn’t he get in touch with his mother?”
“He might have—that note.”
“Strange way to greet your mother after twenty-three years.”
“Maybe he was afraid she’d contact the police. Or someone else would,” I said.
“Like Mugg?”
“Exactly like Mugg. He’d do anything for Lady Barbara—even grass up her son, if he thought it would save her greater pain.”
“The victim had been living rough, dossing in an old shed in the woods. We found blankets, some food, and an empty bottle of rather fine whiskey. We’re checking around locally. There may be CCTV footage of him purchasing it somewhere.”
“When was he killed?”
“No more than twelve hours before he was found.”
“Do you think this death and Tabitha’s are connected?”
“If they are, I couldn’t say how. We’re treating them as separate inquiries for now. The man may have been poisoned. We’ll know in a day or so, when the lab results come in.”
Pubs are usually the social center of an English village, but tonight we seemed to have this one all to ourselves. Tom stood and laid another log on the fire. He poked it, sending a shower of embers up the chimney.
“Tom.” I pulled him down next to me. “You said I have a talent for discerning patterns. Well, here’s a pattern. All three deaths—and I’m including Catherine Kerr—were connected with Finchley Hall. The first two—both women—had access to the Hoard. Catherine Kerr had been planning a museum exhibit in Bury. Her death ended that. Now, twenty-three years later, Tabitha King was planning an exhibit of the Hoard at Finchley Hall. She died before it could happen.”
“Are you implying someone didn’t want the Hoard items on display? That puts you in a precarious position, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t think it’s the exhibit itself the killer fears.”
“Why not?”
“Tabitha told Prue Goody she’d found a discrepancy. The eleven items on the list might be the discrepancy—eleven items she expected to find in the safe but didn’t.”
“Have you mentioned it to Lady Barbara yet?”
“Not yet, and I won’t—not while she’s reeling from the death of the man in the park.”
“It’s a point, I admit. But so is Tabitha’s pregnancy.”
“Which is why you’re conducting the DNA tests.”
“Exactly. The child’s father hasn’t come forward, which means one of three things. He hasn’t heard of her death, he doesn’t know he’s the father, or—more likely—he doesn’t want to be identified. Why is that? What does he have to hide?”
“Will you do the DNA testing at police headquarters?”
“We’ll send a lab tech to the Stables. Less intimidating. If we find a match, we’ll take that person in for questioning.”
“And if you don’t?”
“We’ll widen the field. Tabitha’s romance may have been with someone in the village.”
An image of the dishy young vicar came to mind. I dismissed it as the worst kind of cliché. If there’s sex involved, check out the local clergymen.
I took a sip of cognac. The sweet burn traveled down my throat and landed somewhere in my left thigh. “Remember that night in Scotland when we decided to put everything else aside and just talk?”
“Mmm. That’s when I fell in love with you.”
“Not possible.”
“Yes, it is.” He held up his glass to the firelight, swirling the amber liquid. “I remember the exact moment.”
“Oh?”
“I fell in love with you when you told me about your brother, Matt. He was eleven when he died and you were five, right? I saw your face when you were telling me about it, and that was it. I was a goner.”
“I’m not buying it, but let’s do that again.”
“Fall in love?”
“No, silly.” I poked him in the ribs. “Talk. And not about the murders.”
“All right. Tell me more about Matt. How did you cope with his death?”
I took a breath, reminding myself that I was the one who’d suggested we talk. “One Saturday, it must have been a few weeks after Matt died, my mother cleaned out his room. She said we’d take his clothes and toys to the church—‘for children who need them,’ she said. ‘Matt would have liked that.’ I didn’t buy it. It seemed like erasing him or something. Now I realize how much it must have cost her to let him go.”
Tom was staring into the fire, and I imagined him thinking of Sarah. He took my hand in his. “What did you do?”
“When she went to find another box, I rescued some of Matt’s things. One of his crazy red socks, his Captain America secret decoder ring, his Bugifier—that’s what he called the magnifying glass he used to spy on bugs. I put them in a shoebox under my bed. I’m sure my mother knew.” The fire popped in a shower of sparks. “I still have it. She probably knows that, too.”
“She sounds like a wonderful mother.” Tom brushed a strand of hair from my face.
“She is—kind, wise, sensible, smart.” I steeled myself against a massive wave of guilt. I would have to tell Tom sometime that I’d insulted his mother and ruined any possible future relationship with her. Oh, man. Could I have a do-over?
“How’s the exhibit going? Will you be ready on time?”
“My part’s almost finished,” I said, grateful for a topic less emotionally fraught. “Tabitha would have made a brilliant museum curator one day. As long as the catalogs are ready in time, everything will happen as she planned.”
“What isn’t your part?”
“Security, for one thing. Alex has arranged to have a couple of off-duty policemen there as a precaution.”
“I heard. Good idea.”
“Staffing isn’t my problem either. Volunteers from the Women’s Institute will do a host of other tasks—selling tickets, handling the catalogs and souvenirs, serving tea. Lady Barbara has agreed to set up a tearoom in the library. The locals are glad to help. The showing of the Hoard will bring tourists to the village. Everyone benefits.”
“Let’s get back to the subject at hand,” Tom said.
“And that is?”
“You and me. We need to talk about us, the future.”
The fire guttered as the door opened to admit a blast of cold air. A man swathed in a wool jacket, scarf, and flat cap headed for the bar.
“You said once that we should tell the truth.” I took another sip of the cognac for courage. “When Bill died, we had unfinished business between us. In Scotland, all that was finally settled. I stopped looking back—I really did, Tom. You’re partly responsible for that. But not looking back isn’t the same thing as moving forward.” I held his hand to my cheek. “We have real challenges. One day we’ll have to talk about them. Right now, I’m not ready to make any big decisions, and I can’t tell you when I will be.”
I studied his face. For what? Agreement? Understanding?
His hazel eyes fixed me with a look so intense it nearly took my breath away. “No pressure, Kate. You’re too important to me. We have now, tonight, the rest of your time in England. I’m grateful for that. Just know that I am ready to take the next step. Whenever you are, I’m here.”
Chapter Nineteen
Tuesday, December 15th
If all went as planned, this was the final day I would spend preparing the Hoard exhibit. Everything was in place except the cabinets against the south wall. These would hold the smallest items—coins, pieces of jewelry, and miscellaneous d
ecorative objects.
I was dreading a planned meeting at eleven AM with Alex Devereux to go over security and finalize plans for the mini gift shop in the exhibit hall. Spending time with Alex was not on my list of top-ten things I wanted to do at the moment. She’d hurt my daughter. But then, working with her on the exhibit didn’t mean I had to like her.
Christine and I had planned to have lunch together in her office. She was excited to show me the progress she was making on the Finchley family archives and had implied, rather mysteriously, that there was something in particular I’d find fascinating.
My first destination was the Finchley Hall kitchen. I’d been curious about Mrs. Rumple, the marvelous old cook who’d been with Lady Barbara for more than forty years, but what I really wanted was to ask her about the note left on the bench. Did she know when it was put there? Had she caught a glimpse of the man who left it? Had she recognized him?
Resolving the question of the dead man’s identity was all I could do for Lady Barbara now. Her assurance that her son was alive and well in Venezuela and would return to clear his name and take his rightful place at Finchley Hall was touching. And irresistible. I found myself wanting to protect her.
A motivation I shared with Vivian and Mugg.
As I walked from the Stables to Finchley Hall, my mind returned to the conversation Tom and I had had the night before. How could I resolve the disconnect between the Tom his mother had described, the faithful widower who’d never remarry, and the man who’d just told me he’d wait for me as long as it took? He was right. We did need to talk about us. We needed to take the next step or turn back.
That conversation had to take place, but not today.
The kitchen was on the lower level of the Hall, toward the back of the house and the Elizabethan Garden. Frog-green paint on the old French-style double doors was peeling. The bench Lady Barbara mentioned was a simple slated garden bench with rusting iron arms.
I knocked.
“Come,” called a muffled voice.
The Finchley Hall kitchen combined the latest in Victorian plumbing with a scattering of more modern additions, like an enameled Redfyre range. Occupying the center of the large, high-ceiling room was a scrubbed pine table.
The blonde maid I’d seen several times stood at the freestanding range, stirring scrambled eggs. “Just a mo’. Nearly done.” She gave the eggs another stir, then carried the iron skillet to the wooden table, where she tipped them onto a platter next to slices of fried bacon and a grilled tomato. “Madam’s breakfast,” she said, covering the platter with a dome and transferring it to a wooden dumbwaiter on the wall. She closed the door and pushed a button. The contraption groaned in complaint as it rose toward the upper floor.
This morning, in place of the too-large black dress and white apron, the maid wore a fuzzy mauve sweater with jeans and clogs.
“Is the cook here this morning? I’d like to thank her for the lovely dinner the other night.”
“You’re welcome, I’m sure.” She laughed and stuck out her hand. “Francie Jewell. Pleased to meet you.”
“You’re the cook?”
“And the server. And the housemaid. And the laundress.” She placed her hands on her hips and grinned at me. “I do it all.”
“But I thought—” That was as far as I could go with that sentence.
“You thought the Hall had a proper staff, like the old days.” Francie Jewell nodded toward the ceiling. “So does she upstairs. Mr. Mugg says there’s no harm in it if it makes her happy. She can’t see proper, so let her think it, poor thing.”
“What happened to Mrs. Rumple? Lady Barbara said she’d been the cook here for years.”
“Oh, she was, right up till her son moved her into a council flat in Sudbury. Died a year or so back. Well over eighty.”
“And you took her place?”
“Someone had to step into the breach. If not me, Mugg would have done the cooking himself—well, he does on my day off. He’s that tenderhearted when it comes to Lady Barbara. Irons a right treat ’n all. Now me? I draw the line at ironing.” She chuckled. “I say that’s why God invented polyester.”
“Why not just tell Lady Barbara that Mrs. Rumple had to retire? I’m sure she would have understood.”
“Oh, she would’ve understood all right, and kept paying the woman until she died. Like old Arthur—Arthur Gedge. He potters round the garden when he feels like it and calls it work. Gets paid all the same.”
I could see what she meant. As much as Lady Barbara wanted to keep up the old ways, she couldn’t afford to pay two cooks at the same time. “Has Mr. Gedge been here a long time?”
“Just Gedge, love. All his life—an’ his father before him. Lots of Gedges at the Hall over the years. Still here, if you think about it. Taking their retirement in the churchyard.”
“Is Mr. Gedge married? Widowed?” Ever shown an interest in the interns?
“Never married, bless him. Lives alone in a tied cottage on t’other side of Blackwater Lake. The police asked about him. Came for a chat, didn’t they? Right after the police divers searched the lake.”
“This may be off the subject, but have you ever had a theft at the Hall?”
Francie sucked in the side of her bottom lip. “Not that I recall. Least not whilst I’ve been here. Wait”—she stuck her index finger in the air—“I tell a lie. Someone stole a bottle of whiskey from the pantry last week.” She gestured toward a door near a long porcelain sink. “And an extra meat pie I was savin’ for my Harry. Must’ve been one o’ the young lads. They’re always hungry, aren’t they—and don’t mind a drop or two now and again.”
A missing bottle of whiskey. The dog that didn’t bark in the night. Outliers.
“Is there something you require, Mrs. Hamilton?” A dark shape filled the open doorway.
How did Mugg move around so quietly? His face was inscrutable, but I got the message—belowstairs wasn’t a place for the likes of me.
“I stopped by to thank Francie for the wonderful dinner the other night.”
He arched an eyebrow.
“And thank you, too. I know how hard you work.” With a friendly wave, I left.
Poor Francie. As soon as I was out of earshot, she’d get an earful.
* * *
The final drawer of the huge safe slid open silently, revealing felt-lined compartments filled with small items—rings, ear clips, buttons, shoulder clasps, closures, and toggles. Gold and silver coins—two or three dozen—had been sorted and stored in organza bags tied with ribbons, like the rose-petal bags at weddings.
Pulling on a clean pair of cotton gloves, I began the work of placing each item where Tabitha had planned. She’d been wise to showcase these tiny treasures by themselves. Each was a jewel in its own right—pewter buttons in the shape of lover’s knots, acorns, and hearts; chased silver aglets—the tubes of metal clamped to the ends of laces to help thread them through an eyelet; beads of glass, amber, and garnet.
I thought about Francie Jewell and the deception perpetrated on Lady Barbara. Perhaps Mugg’s intentions were good—protecting Lady Barbara from hard financial decisions regarding her staff—but deceiving her didn’t feel right. In spite of her poor vision and general air of fragility, she was a sensible person, able to withstand the hard things in life as well as anyone else. She’d proven that when she faced the likelihood that her son was dead. Now I was in the position of having to choose: should I keep Mugg’s secret or tell Lady Barbara?
I wondered if Vivian Bunn knew that Finchley Hall’s so-called staff boiled down to two people—Mugg and Francie Jewell. Was Vivian in on the deception? Maybe that’s why Mugg disliked me. He was afraid I’d spoil the fiction he had going that Finchley Hall was humming along like clockwork. From what I could see, Finchley Hall was hanging by a thread. But it wasn’t my job to set Lady Barbara straight. Was it?
On my fourth or fifth trip back to the safe, I picked up a ring and stopped dead in my tracks. The rolled gold band
was slightly dented. On the crown, a double frame of small natural pearls surrounded a bezel-set red gemstone, about a half inch by three quarters, incised with a crude griffin.
Was this Lady Susannah’s ring, the legendary blood-red ring in the portrait?
I turned it in my hand. The center stone appeared smaller than the one in the portrait, and the shape wasn’t exactly right—rounder, less oval. Maybe the portrait artist had exaggerated the size of the stone to emphasize the Finchley wealth. Or perhaps the portrait had been painted after Lady Susannah’s death and after the disappearance of the ring.
On the spreadsheet, Tabitha had listed it as GOLD RING WITH RED GEMSTONE. She could hardly have failed to notice the similarity to the ring in the portrait, nor the small differences. Was this the discrepancy she’d mentioned to Prue?
I held the ring toward the light, waiting for the tingling fingertips, the rush of warmth in my cheeks, the pounding of my heart, the dryness in my mouth.
Nothing happened.
Nothing at all.
Chapter Twenty
I placed the red gemstone ring in its allotted place in the cabinet and followed the curve of the pearls with my gloved finger. The central stone was a deep, clear red with a slightly earthy cast. A gem-quality garnet was my guess. Definitely not a pigeon’s blood ruby, the designation reserved for the finest of the fine. Or at least it used to be. Today everyone uses the term—even Walmart.
Was this Tabitha’s discrepancy—finding a garnet instead of a fine ruby?
At least I had something to tell Lady Barbara. I’d learned nothing about the dead man in the park, but I might have found Lady Susannah’s ring hiding in plain sight. Yay! Displaying the ring and the portrait together would add to the excitement surrounding the exhibit. But I’d have to be honest about my reservations.
What if this ring wasn’t Lady Susannah’s ring—just similar? Did it even matter?
Truth always matters pronounced the righteous voice of my conscience.
“I know that,” I snapped aloud. “But what if the truth can no longer be determined?”