A Legacy of Murder

by Connie Berry

  “Kate, you’re a marvel,” Lady Barbara said. “Lady Susannah’s ring was there all the time, and no one knew.”

  “You also need to know there are subtle differences in size and shape. The resemblance is remarkable but not precise. There’s no inscription to identify it as Lady Susannah’s.”

  “Well, I believe it’s the same ring.” Vivian’s chin bounced once. “A fitting time to come home to us as well, with the exhibit a few days away.”

  “It’s like a miracle.” Lady Barbara’s hands went to her pale cheeks. “What do you suggest we do, Kate?”

  “I’d like your permission to issue a press release—and to showcase the portrait and the ring side by side. We’ll mention the differences, but the public will love it in any case.”

  Francie Jewell—Briggs—brought the tea tray.

  Vivian poured out.

  “There’s something else.” I took a sip of my tea and wiped my fingers on a soft linen napkin. “I think we should honor Tabitha’s memory in some way.”

  “What a wonderful idea.” Lady Barbara clapped her hands, nearly flinging the cup of tea Vivian was handing her across the room. “Will you think of the best way to do it, Kate? We’ll let her parents know.”

  “Of course.” I eyed a plate of delicately browned scones.

  “Apricot and ginger,” Vivian said. “One of cook’s specialties.”

  “Briggs, are you still here?” Lady Barbara glanced around the room.

  “Yes, madam.” Francie had the grace to blush.

  “Tell cook she’s an absolute treasure, will you?”

  “Of course, madam. I’ll do that now, shall I, madam?” She winked at me and backed out of the room.

  I halved my scone and spread it with a thin layer of butter before biting into the fragrant cakelike texture. I tasted spice with a hint of crunch from a sprinkling of sugar on top. Cook was a treasure.

  Spots of soft color bloomed on Lady Barbara’s cheeks. “I can’t help wishing my father had known about the ring. The Hoard was something of an obsession of his. He had the idea we might locate the items that were sold off in the past and buy them back again. Impossible, of course.”

  Since she’d brought the subject up, I took it a step further. “You said you’d promised to keep the remaining collection intact.”

  “I would never sell. The Hoard is the Finchley legacy. When I’m gone, my son will become caretaker.” Her cup rattled in the saucer.

  “How many objects from the Hoard were sold? Do you have a list?”

  “There may be something in the archives. I’m not sure. All this happened long ago.”

  “So nothing has been sold recently, I mean in the past twenty-five years or so.”

  “Not in my lifetime, nor in my father’s, nor my grandfather’s. Why are you asking?”

  “Tabitha had printed out a copy of the inventory she made. At the end, she’d written a list of eleven items, none of which appear on the inventory or in the catalog. It occurred to me they might be objects she expected to find but didn’t.”

  “Because they’d been sold?” Lady Barbara shook her head. “No, that can’t be true.”

  “Or stolen?” I asked in a small voice.

  “Good heavens. The Hoard has been under lock and key for nearly forty years now. If we’d had a theft, Mugg would have told me.”

  Would he? If Mugg kept the lack of servants from Lady Barbara, what other secrets did he keep? “Do you know of any previous inventories of the Hoard? Did Christine Kerr make one, for example?”

  “I wouldn’t know. Cedru was alive then. He took care of everything.”

  “I thought if we could compare the inventory Tabitha made with an earlier one, we’d know if any of the objects are missing.”

  “I suppose so, but—”

  “What about that book?” Vivian said. “You know—the one written by that local chap after the discovery of the Hoard. Didn’t he include an inventory?”

  Lady Barbara’s face lit up. “I’d forgotten about that. We have a copy in the library. I’ll ask Mugg to look it out for you, shall I?”

  “Something you require, madam?” Mugg had slipped into the room without anyone noticing.

  I glanced at his feet, half expecting to see felt slippers. If the ideal maid-of-all-work was unfailingly cheerful in her drudgery, the ideal butler was invisible yet always at hand.

  “Yes, thank you, Mugg,” Lady Barbara said. “Mrs. Hamilton asked if we’d ever had a theft at the Hall.”

  “No, madam,” Mugg said stiffly. “I would have mentioned it.”

  “Of course. Well, see if you can locate that book on the Hoard, will you? The one written by … who was it, now? Swilling? Shilling?”

  “Of course, madam.”

  He left but returned two minutes later. “Pardon me, madam. Detective Inspector Mallory is here to see you.”

  Mugg stepped aside, and Tom strode into the room.

  He shot me a quick look. “I’m sorry for the intrusion, Lady Barbara, but have you seen Peter Ingham today?”

  “Not since the Eve of St. Æthelric. Why?”

  “He seems to have gone missing.”

  “Have you asked Gedge?”

  Tom put on his professional face, but the subtle shift in his eyes told me he was glossing over what came next. “Mr. Gedge is on his way to police headquarters. Our divers retrieved a garden spade from Blackwater Lake. We’re having it tested for blood.”

  “Gedge?” Lady Barbara’s face crumpled. “You suspect Gedge?”

  “He may be able to help us with our enquiries.”

  Lady Barbara put up her hands. “This is all too much. Murder. Theft. Whatever will happen next?”

  I was wondering the same thing.

  * * *

  Spits of rain fell from a pewter sky.

  “How long has Peter been missing?” I held Tom’s arm as we hurried beneath his umbrella toward the Stables.

  “No one has seen him since yesterday afternoon.”

  “And you think Gedge knows where Peter is?”

  “He says not. He claims Peter was upset by the DNA test, called it an invasion of privacy.”

  “That doesn’t make Peter guilty.”

  “That’s why we need his sample—to rule him out. If he’s not the killer, why isn’t he willing to give a DNA sample”

  “And Gedge?”

  “I think he knows more than he’s willing to say. The spade found in the lake matches others in the garden shed.”

  “What about Adam, the intern who decided not to come?”

  “Ruled out. He attends the University of Exeter. Never met Tabitha.”

  We bobbed along under the umbrella, dodging puddles on the gravel path. Cliché or not, I couldn’t help thinking about the handsome young vicar comforting Tabitha at the Three Magpies.

  “So if none of the samples match, you’ll widen the circle.”

  I must not have sounded as neutral as I’d meant to because Tom slowed his pace. “Are you thinking of someone in particular?”

  “No one in particular.” Not the whole truth, but I’d learned in Scotland that casting suspicion on an innocent person can have unintended consequences. Before voicing my concerns to a policeman, I’d find out more about the dishy vicar.

  “We got a preliminary autopsy report this morning,” Tom said. “The man found near the garden wall was poisoned, as we suspected. The substance matches a powerful herbicide also found in the shed.”

  “That doesn’t mean Peter or Gedge had anything to do with the murder. Anyone might have slipped into the shed. Nothing’s locked around here. The grounds are open to the public.”

  “We’re aware of that, Kate, but it’s a line of enquiry we have to pursue.”

  “What questions do you think Gedge can answer?”

  “Did he notice the spade was missing? Was he aware of the herbicide? Had the bottle been tampered with? Is he protecting Peter Ingham?”

  “You now think the two deaths are
related?”

  “We’re still treating them as separate enquiries. But two murders at Finchley Hall within a week can’t be coincidence.”

  “Yes, and there’s the death of the museum curator twenty-three years ago.”

  “Well, if the same person committed all three murders, Peter’s off the hook. He wasn’t born yet.”

  “Arthur Gedge was. He found Catherine Kerr’s body.”

  “What motive? Either the killer is a psychopath with nothing more than the desire to kill, or we haven’t yet figured out what the murders have in common.”

  “Catherine Kerr and Tabitha King were both attacked and their bodies thrown in the lake.”

  “But the man was poisoned.”

  “Maybe the killer needed to make sure he couldn’t fight back.”

  “Assuming the three deaths are related, why kill a young woman and then wait twenty-three years to do it again? Serial killers typically have a cooling-off period, but not that long.”

  “Maybe the killer had no reason to kill again until Tabitha. And maybe the stranger was killed because he knew something or saw something.”

  “Possible. Which brings us back to the unknown motive.” Tom must have noticed my puzzled look. “What is it?”

  “What did the file on the Catherine Kerr murder say about Gedge’s alibi?”

  “‘Airtight’ was the way Inspector Evans put it. The young woman died between eight and ten that evening. Gedge swore he was drinking at the Finchley Arms, and the bartender confirmed it. Except for a few trips to the loo, Gedge was there, on his usual stool, from six thirty until closing time.”

  We’d arrived at the Stables, where Tom had parked his silver Volvo.

  “Take the umbrella.”

  I held out my hand. “No need. Rain’s stopped.”

  Tom shook out the umbrella and rolled it up. “I should be able to get away tonight.” He gave me that slow half smile. “How about dinner in the village? Pick you up at six?”

  “On one condition.”

  “Which is?” He clicked open the car doors and slid into the driver’s seat.

  “The Three Magpies this time. Please.”

  I watched him drive away. My mobile pinged. A text from Christine.

  COME TO MY OFFICE. YOU’RE NOT GOING TO BELIEVE THIS.

  * * *

  Christine’s long, dark hair fell over her shoulders as she bent over several open books. She tucked a strand behind her ear. “Amazing what you can learn from original records. So much could be concealed in the past—names, ages, past crimes. No computer records to contradict you.” She looked up. “Then, decades later, secrets are revealed.”

  Long-hidden secrets. It was true. I’d done some genealogical work on my father’s family and found that every time the census takers came through, his grandmother shaved a couple of years off her age.

  “What secrets did you uncover?”

  “Come see for yourself. No, not that one.” Christine pushed a ledger book toward me and pointed to a line on the open page. “Start here.”

  At the top of each page, someone had written in a formal script, GIFTS AND PAYMENTS 1898 TO 1900.

  “‘Tenth April 1898,’” I read aloud. “‘Ten pounds. Wedding gift for Alice Thurtle and Thomas Gedge.’” I looked up. “So the Thurtles were related to the Gedges. Understandable, since they both worked for the Finchleys.”

  She turned several pages. “Now this one.”

  “‘First November 1898. Five pounds. Burial of infant son of Alice and Thomas Gedge.’”

  “Alice was three months pregnant when she married Thomas.” Christine opened a second ledger to a place she’d marked. “Now, look at this, four years later—‘Fourth April 1902. One pound. Gift for Alice and Thomas Gedge upon the birth of a daughter, Eloise.’”

  I was about to remark that the birth of a child to a married couple in 1902 was hardly remarkable when Christine opened a third ledger book with a look of triumph. “Guess what happened to little Eloise Gedge?” She angled the book toward me.

  16TH JUNE 1924. £25. WEDDING GIFT FOR ELOISE GEDGE AND GEORGE INGHAM.

  “Ingham?” It took me a moment to grasp the significance. “You think Peter Ingham and Arthur Gedge are related?”

  “Possible. Likely, even. So why haven’t they said?”

  “Ingham may be a common name in Suffolk. It could be coincidence,” I said, remembering Tom’s suggestion that Gedge was covering for Peter. I pictured the argument between them near the garden shed the day Tabitha’s body was found in the lake—and their obvious friendship later in the Finchley Arms. Now Arthur Gedge was in police custody and Peter Ingham was missing.

  “Is Peter Ingham from this area?”

  “He went to the University of East Anglia, but he could have grown up anywhere.”

  The University of East Anglia. Tabitha’s university. “It’s worth checking out.”

  Christine closed the ledger. “I’ll do a little more research and see what I come up with. Eloise Gedge Ingham wouldn’t be alive today, but her children and grandchildren might be.”

  “Peter’s great-grandparents?” I was having trouble taking it in. “But what would this have to do with the murders?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s interesting.”

  I had to agree. “I’ll mention it to Tom tonight. We’re having dinner at the Three Magpies.”

  “Again? Are you serious about him?” The serrated edge to Christine’s voice turned the question into an accusation.

  “I haven’t known him long enough to be serious.” The offhand comment didn’t ring true, even to me. I owed her an honest answer. “I do like him, Christine. I like him a lot. If it wasn’t for our circumstances, living so far apart, I think I could be serious about him.”

  “What about Dad?” She folded her arms across her chest. “You just forget him and get on with your life, is that it?”

  “I haven’t forgotten him. I never will. But what else can I do but get on with my life?’

  “It’s inappropriate. It’s too soon. You’re still in mourning.”

  “What am I supposed to do—wear a black veil?”

  “You’re supposed to act like a mature woman, not a teenager.”

  I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. “That’s not fair. I’ve done nothing inappropriate, nothing that would dishonor your father in any way.”

  “I disagree.” She took a sharp breath through her nose.

  “That’s your right, but you don’t have the right to plan my life for me.”

  “Why not? You’re always trying to plan mine.”

  That hurt. I’d tried so hard not to plan her life. I’d stood by and watched her ricochet from one disastrous relationship to another, replaying over and over again in real time what I knew she felt as her father’s abandonment. I knew it because I’d experienced it. But where Christine repeated the pattern, expecting a different result, I’d walled myself off from pain. Or tried to.

  Christine glared at me. A muscle in her cheek twitched. The portcullis was coming down.

  I softened my tone. “I loved your father very much, but he’s gone. We can’t have him back no matter how much we wish it.” I reached for her and felt her stiffen. “I haven’t forgotten him, Christine. I never will.”

  I walked away from the archives building, breathing in lungfuls of cold, damp air.

  Could I have handled things differently? Used different words?

  No. I was forty-six, not exactly young but far from getting a giant pill organizer and joining the Red Hat Society. There would be another man in my life one day. If not Tom, someone else. Christine would just have to accept the fact that I had a life, as she did, and if there were mistakes to be made, I had to make them.

  As she does.

  Ouch. I hate it when I’m right.

  Think about it later. I punched in the number for Finchley Hall.

  Francie Jewell—Briggs—answered, and I was put through to Lady Barbara.

  “I’m c
alling about that book on the Hoard. I could stop over now and pick it up.”

  “I’m glad you called, Kate. It’s very strange, but the book has gone missing.”

  “Could Tabitha have borrowed it?”

  “It’s possible.” Lady Barbara sounded distressed. “I do hope you find it. It was a lovely thing, beautifully printed, bound in soft, pale suede. Not many copies were produced. It would be a shame if—oh.” She stopped abruptly. “I just remembered. A man in the village has a copy. Ivor Tweedy. His shop is on the High Street, not far from the church. Do you know it?”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The spring-loaded bell jangled as I stepped through the door of Ivor Tweedy’s shop. He stood behind the counter, a small metal can in one hand, a rag in the other.

  “Kate, my dear. You’ve come back so soon.” He gestured with the rag. “Come in, come in.” He set down the can and wiped his hands. “Such a treat. An unexpected treat.”

  “How’s the hip today?”

  “No complaints, no complaints. Cleaning silver.” He picked up what looked like a pair of footed scissors with a small box on the blades. “Know what this is, hmm?”

  “Candlesnuffer.” I was the pupil again.

  “And it was used for …?” His blue eyes widened, innocent as a child’s.

  I didn’t fall into the trap. “Not for snuffing candle flames. For trimming wicks before the invention of self-consuming wicks.”

  “And why were the ends pointed?”

  I could tell he was pleased. “To retrieve the wick if it fell into the soft wax. I have two pairs in my shop at the moment. One Georgian, sterling, the other Victorian, close-plated on steel.”

  “You know your stuff.” He screwed the cap on the silver cleaner and folded the rag. “The police stopped in yesterday.”

  “To ask about Lucien Finchley-fforde, I suppose.”

  “They wanted to know how I could be so certain he was dead. I told them, if Lucien were alive, he’d have wheedled his mother long ago into giving him his inheritance. Completely self-centered, that man was. And always in need of ready cash. He lost his generous allowance when he left England. He couldn’t have survived on his own.”

  “Lady Barbara insists her son is alive and well in Venezuela.”

  “Let her think that if it brings her comfort.”