A Legacy of Murder

by Connie Berry

  Perhaps the legend was all that mattered—like the search for the Loch Ness monster. How do you prove something doesn’t exist? Finding no evidence leaves the legend intact, and everyone is happy.

  Not my call. All I could do was tell Lady Barbara everything, including my reservations, and let her decide what to do with the information. The ring, the portrait, and the legend belonged to her.

  At eleven on the dot, Alex came through the door, hefting a large box. She dumped it on the sales counter. “Be right back.”

  I stood at the window and watched her wrestle another box from the boot of an ancient Land Rover. She wore skintight jodhpurs with an oatmeal-colored sweater under her green quilted vest.

  Seeing more boxes in the back of the Rover, I went out to help her.

  Once we’d carried everything inside, we unpacked the boxes and spread the contents on the long counter. In addition to the stash of vintage postcards of Hoard objects, Alex had purchased a variety of gifts for those who wished to commemorate their visit to Finchley Hall. The items included T-shirts and tote bags digitally printed with an image of the Finchley Cross, sets of medieval action figures, children’s Anglo-Saxon coloring books, adult coloring books featuring Celtic designs, some lovely jewelry, and even food—chamomile tea, oat biscuits, jars of local honey, and lovely, long-necked bottles of golden mead. No plastic weaponry, thankfully.

  “I’m impressed,” I said, fingering a silver necklace with a Celtic trefoil knot. “You’ve chosen lovely things.”

  “I wanted to add silk scarves and some reproduction Anglo-Saxon jewelry, too, but Lady Barbara drew the line. Too bad, because we’ll triple her investment on this lot.”

  We got busy sorting the gifts and adding easy-to-peel price stickers. Tabitha had designed the gift shop so people could enter at will, but to exit, they had to pass a watchful salesclerk. A wise precaution.

  I glanced at the exhibit hall. Preventing shoplifting was one thing. Preventing the theft of real treasures was another.

  “Alex,” I said, putting a sticker on the last of the honey jars, “I’m concerned about security. If a National Trust property can be burglarized, we could be next.”

  “Have you been talking to Mugg? He’s still trying to talk Lady Barbara out of the exhibit. Bit late for that now.”

  “Why is he so protective?”

  “He sees himself as Lady Barbara’s defender. His one goal in life is to make her life as perfect as possible. He thinks putting the Hoard on public display is too dangerous.”

  “Aren’t you worried?”

  “We’ve taken every precaution. The thieves would have to be thick as two planks to try something here. They’ve got to know security will be tight.”

  “This may be a professional gang. Tom believes the thieves send someone in advance to scout the place out. The docents at the National Trust property mentioned a woman, respectable looking, who asked a lot of questions.”

  Alex frowned, her smooth brow creasing. “An advance person?”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Nothing, really.” She shook her head. “Just that it’s a good thing we’ve assigned extra people to observe. Forewarned and all that.”

  “How many people will we have inside the exhibit space?”

  “You, obviously. Mostly to answer questions. And Mr. Tweedy if we can get him. Otherwise, several observers will be stationed around the room—three, if you think that’s enough—plus a uniformed constable. We’re paying him. One or two women from the Auxiliary in the shop. More villagers outside, plus one or two constables and a few community support officers who’ve volunteered their time.”

  “Sounds like enough.” I said. But were we being naïve? If a valuable figurine could be lifted from a National Trust property, why not Finchley Hall?

  “I should go,” Alex said. “Lady Barbara wants to chat about the tearoom.”

  “Do you have five minutes? I’d like to show you something and get your thoughts. Over here, in the small cabinet.” I pointed out the garnet ring.

  Alex’s lips parted. She turned her green-gold eyes on me. “Wherever did you find it?”

  I told her.

  Alex was already taking photos of the ring on her mobile. “If there’s the slightest possibility this is Lady Susannah’s ring, we should issue a press release right away.”

  “We need Lady Barbara’s permission.”

  She put the back of her hand to her forehead. “This is huge. Think of it—the ring was in the safe all the time, and no one knew.”

  “We don’t know for sure it’s Lady Susannah’s ring.”

  Had she heard me? She pulled up one of the photos she’d taken and turned the screen toward me. “What do you think—good enough for the newspaper?” Her face glowed. “How exciting. Well done, you.”

  “Just get Lady Barbara’s permission before you say anything to the press.”

  “Of course. But it’s so thrilling. This will be the focus of the BBC documentary.”

  If it wasn’t for Alex’s shameless flirting with Tristan, I might have liked her. She was intelligent, competent, exuberant. Was I being disloyal to Christine? The friend of my enemy … Or is it the other way around?

  Suddenly Alex’s face changed. “Do you think Tabs knew about the ring? She never said.”

  “Did she ever talk about her work?”

  “General stuff. She was excited about the exhibit.” Alex tipped her head. “Although now you mention it, she did say something about things not working out.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Not sure. She said something like, ‘It’s frustrating. I can’t make it work out.’”

  “Make what work out?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t really paying attention.”

  “Do you remember if she had a book about the Hoard?”

  “I never saw one.” Alex zipped up her green quilted vest. “We’ve got to tell Lady Barbara and get started on the promo.”

  “Let me do a little research first. I’d like to see if any similar rings have been sold through the major auction houses. Why don’t you check the portrait? Take a photograph so we can compare. When we’ve got all the facts, I’ll tell Lady Barbara. If she’s agreeable, you can go ahead.”

  “Just don’t wait too long.”

  “One more day won’t matter. I’m seeing her tomorrow.”

  Alex began stacking the empty boxes. “I’ll have Tristan take these to storage until after the exhibit.”

  “Are you serious about Tristan?” Did I just say that?

  “Hardly.” She made a face. “It’s just a bit of fun, isn’t it?”

  I bit my tongue. Going further with this conversation would be disloyal to my daughter. Christine was going to have to figure this one out on her own.

  She glanced at her mobile. “Gotta run. Let me know about the ring.”

  * * *

  Christine and I slid the remains of our turkey sandwiches into the Tesco bag and sat back with two mugs of tea and a bag of crisps between us. We’d pulled chairs in front of the tall windows that looked out on the park. What we could see of Blackwater Lake sparkled in the winter sun.

  “The challenging part,” Christine said, polishing off a crisp and reaching for another, “is the complete lack of organization. Records had been stuffed in files for years without any attempt to sort them into categories. Birth certificates are stored alongside school records and grocery bills. The first thing I have to do is establish some kind of order, and that means looking at every individual scrap of paper. Some records have been misfiled, put in the wrong year. That’s what happened to the ledger from 1892. I found it in a folio at the bottom of the 1937 drawer.”

  Christine had shown me the organizational system used for centuries at Finchley Hall. Inside the painted archive cabinets, deep drawers were stenciled with successive years. The last year stored in this building seemed to be 1999, the year Cedru Finchley-fforde died. Where the current records were kept, C
hristine didn’t know, but if they were in the same condition as these, Lady Barbara would need a team of chartered accountants to sort things out.

  “Who keeps the accounts now?”

  “Mugg, I think.” Christine rocked back in her chair to grab a thick folio from the square table behind us. She pulled out a black, leather-bound ledger, about eight inches by sixteen. Printed in gold on the cover were the words HOUSEHOLD LEDGER and the dates JAN 1892 TO JUNE 1892.

  “These people were paid next to nothing,” Christine said, “and they worked from sunrise to the wee hours.” She opened the book and spread it on her lap where we both could see.

  The ledger was organized by month. Names of individuals, mostly males, were written in rough alphabetical order along with their titles or jobs and their wages.

  “Take this guy, for example,” Christine said.

  The name was George Cuthbert. He was listed as head butler with a bimonthly wage of two pounds, ten shillings, and fifty pence. “Do you know how much that is in today’s money?” she asked. “I looked it up. Five thousand three hundred and fifty American dollars a year. Of course, he didn’t have to pay for a place to live and food to eat. Once in service, he’d never have been thrown out—at least at Finchley Hall. But he had no hope of betterment—saving enough to learn a trade and leave service. These people were stuck, completely dependent on their employers. And he was one of the higher-paid employees. Look at this one, ‘Alice Thurtle, Maid of All Work.’”

  “Thurtle? Wasn’t that the name of the man who buried the Hoard in 1549? And the name of the man who dug it up in 1818 and was killed by a spring-gun?”

  “There were a lot of Thurtles at the Hall. She earned fifteen shillings every two weeks. Fifteen shillings, Mom. Think about it. That’s only eighteen pounds a year, and she would have done everything from scrubbing floors to peeling potatoes to starching collars. Alice would have been expected to get up before the rest of the household, light the fires, and start the breakfast. If she was caught keeping company with a young man, she was thrown out. And with all this, she was expected to be quiet, good-tempered, and content with her lot in life.” She handed me the ledger. “Look at all these names. No wonder the great houses kept going for so long. Practically forced labor.”

  I thumbed through, stuck on the name Thurtle. “I wonder what happened to Alice.”

  “If I have time, I’ll check.”

  I’d turned a page when a name jumped out and grabbed me. “Look at this, Christine. ‘Arthur Gedge, Head Gardener.’”

  Christine leaned over my shoulder to read the entry. “Well, they do call him Old Arthur, but he can’t be a hundred and forty-six or whatever that works out to be.”

  I laughed. “The current Arthur Gedge must be this man’s great-grandson. Miss Bunn said many of the local families have worked at the Hall for generations.”

  “Vivian Bunn? She’s a hoot. She was telling me all about the portrait of Lady Susannah with that famous ring.”

  “The ring—I almost forgot. Come downstairs. There’s something I want you to see.”

  I flipped on the lights in the exhibition hall, reminding myself not to mention my conversation with Alex. Why skate on thin ice with hot blades?

  We stood in front of the display case. “Remind you of anything?”

  Christine stared at the ring, then at me. “It’s the ring in the portrait. You found it.”

  “Maybe. It’s close but not a perfect match.”

  She leaned forward to peer more closely. “It’s a ruby, right?”

  “More likely a garnet.”

  “Everyone says it was a ruby. Does that mean it’s not valuable?”

  “It’s valuable, for the history if nothing else. But a ruby would be worth a lot more. Not that Lady Barbara would ever sell it. The house would have to be collapsing around her head before she’d sell off any of the family treasures.”

  “It practically is collapsing,” Christine huffed. “She doesn’t seem to notice.”

  “That’s not true. She knows she needs income. That’s one of the reasons she agreed to the exhibit of the Hoard.”

  “She should be worried about all the thefts.”

  “What do you mean ‘all the thefts’? Has something else happened?”

  “You didn’t hear? Glepping Park south of Mildenhall was burgled last night. It made the front page of the newspaper this morning.”

  “What did they take?”

  “Oddly enough, only one thing. A silver snuffbox. Early seventeenth century.”

  “Easy to snatch and conceal. Like the Chinese figurine taken near Lowestoft.”

  “Like that lot downstairs.”

  I felt a chill.

  A great loss?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Wednesday, December 16th

  Overnight a line of storms swept across the rolling hills of Suffolk on their way to the North Sea and Scandinavia, leaving behind a damp, bone-numbing chill.

  Quintessential English weather.

  I pulled on my heaviest sweater and scrunched into the warm turtleneck as I zipped my down jacket and headed for the Hall.

  The path was soggy. Low, flat clouds hid the sun.

  Today was the DNA testing. Tom had asked the female interns—and me—to stay out of the Stables from ten AM until noon. Privacy concerns.

  Lady Barbara was my concern at the moment. Finchley Hall was facing more than financial woes. The murders threatened everything she’d worked for since her husband’s death. The ring could make a real difference. If it really was Lady Susannah’s.

  A robin with a coral breast and white underbelly perched on a bush, gorging on the fat, violet-colored berries. All manner of creatures took shelter and nourishment from the Finchley estate. Generations of local families had depended upon the Hall for survival as well. Some still did. The success of the Hoard exhibit was more than a matter of local pride.

  Late the previous evening, Alex had texted me the photo she’d taken of the ring alongside a photo of the ring in the portrait. If not the same ring, they were near-identical twins. One of my unbreakable rules in the antiques trade is to tell the truth, the whole truth. If something has been damaged or repaired, I point it out. When there is a question about provenance, I make it known. Lady Barbara needed the facts. All of them.

  I stifled a yawn. Three or four hours of fitful sleep are not enough. I’d fallen asleep quickly, only to wake at three AM—the hour of the wolf, some call it, when worries and fears magnify. Were my misgivings about the ring overblown? Was Christine about to get her heart broken again? Was Finchley Hall next on the thieves’ agenda?

  Loss was becoming a theme at Finchley Hall. The loss of the Hoard and the rediscovery of it more than two hundred fifty years later. Lady Susannah’s portrait, lost and recovered by Lady Barbara’s husband. The blood-red ring, lost in plain sight.

  Lady Barbara’s son, the greatest loss.

  In the distance two figures moved in my direction. As they neared, I recognized Albert Mugg and Arthur Gedge. They were probably on their way to the Stables for the DNA testing.

  Mugg nodded curtly. “Morning.”

  “Miss.” Old Arthur pulled on his flat cap. He looked almost cheerful, as if the suggestion he’d fathered a child was a fine joke. Or a compliment.

  I pushed the doorbell. In minutes the heavy entrance door of Finchley Hall opened.

  “Good morning, miss.” Francie grinned as she stood back to let me in. This time she wore a gray smock with a white collar and cuffs. Her hair was pulled back into a net-covered bun.

  She took my jacket and led me into Lady’s Barbara’s sitting room.

  Lady Barbara sat with Vivian. The Bobbsey twins.

  “Thank you, Briggs,” Lady Barbara said.

  Briggs? How many incarnations did that woman have?

  “Yes, madam.” Francie Jewell shot me a look and scurried out of the room.

  Vivian studied her nails.

  “Kate, I’m glad you�
�ve come,” Lady Barbara said. “The police called this morning. Not your Tom. The other one, Constable Wheeler.”

  “News from Venezuela?”

  “Not yet. He called to say if they haven’t heard anything by tomorrow, they’ll retransmit the request.” Her eyes were dull, her cheeks ashen. She’d aged a decade or two since the morning at the morgue in Bury St. Edmunds. “All I can think about is that poor man who died,” she said, combing her hair back from her forehead with trembling fingers. “Why had he come? What message did he have for me?”

  “Tush, now,” Vivian said. “You’ll get yourself in a twist again.”

  “I am in a twist.” Lady Barbara stood and made her way to the window overlooking the gravel courtyard. A fine rain pricked the glass and ran down in rivulets. “This must have something to do with Lucien. My son may be in trouble, and now I’ll never know or be able to help him.”

  “Come sit, dear,” Vivian said. “Briggs will be here with our tea shortly.”

  I looked at Vivian and mouthed, Briggs?

  She gave a little shrug.

  Lady Barbara returned and perched on the edge of her chair. “I’ve written Lucien, of course, but I won’t hear anything for days, maybe weeks.”

  “There’s something I need to tell you,” I said, changing the subject. “I’m not sure, but I may have found the ring in the portrait of Lady Susannah. The blood-red ring.”

  Both women stared at me in mute surprise.

  “Take a look.” I pulled up the photos on my phone. “This is the ring I found. And this is the ring in the portrait.”

  “I can’t make it out.” Lady Barbara touched Vivian’s arm. “Viv, tell me.”

  Vivian switched on a lamp. The bulb flickered twice before coming on. “It’s the same ring,” she said, holding the phone under the light.

  “Wherever did you find it?” Lady Barbara asked.

  “In the safe. Tabitha’s inventory listed it as a gold ring with a red gemstone.”

  “You’re saying she didn’t recognize it?”

  “It’s possible she recognized it but didn’t, um, live long enough to tell you.”

  “Poor child,” Vivian said, tutting.