by Connie Berry
“Did the vicar of St. Æthelric’s call you?” I asked Tom when she’d gone.
“Just as I was leaving. I understand you’re responsible. Thank you.”
“Does it help?”
“Of course. We suspected the dead man knew someone around here, but this is the first direct confirmation. And, if the vicar was right, it pinpoints the murder to a four-hour window between the first ringing of the bells and the discovery of the body.”
I speared an olive. “Any news on Peter?”
“Vanished. If he doesn’t show himself by morning, we’ll have to call his parents in Norwich.”
“Peter Ingham’s from Norwich?”
Tom narrowed his eyes. “Why? Do you know something?”
“I might. Christine showed me some old Finchley Hall ledgers. Three families working for the Finchleys—the Thurtles, the Gedges, and the Inghams—intermarried during those years. Not surprising, except that Eloise Gedge and George Ingham had a son who survived the Korean War. The vicar said the son moved to Norwich.”
“You’re saying Peter Ingham and Arthur Gedge are related? Gedge never mentioned it.”
Tom’s phone beeped. He excused himself.
By the time he returned, Jayne had arrived to take our orders.
“Sorry about that.” Tom slid into his chair and spread his napkin on his lap.
I ordered the trout. He ordered the lamb.
When Jayne left to put in the orders, I asked, “Something important?”
“That was Cliffe. The coroner’s report on the male victim came in.”
“Are you able to tell me?”
“He was dosed with herbicide all right—paraquat, a highly toxic weed killer banned in the U.K. in 2007. The SOCOs—the scenes-of-crime officers—found an old tin of it in the garden shed. Gedge swears he didn’t know it was there. If he had, he would have turned it in for disposal years ago.”
“And you believed him?”
“Funny thing, Kate, but I did. There’s something he isn’t telling us—maybe his connection to Peter—but I don’t think he was lying about the spade and the poison.” Tom took a taste of the Sancerre. “Someone knew the herbicide was there—and what it would do. If you’re going to poison someone, you better make sure they die.”
“But how would the killer get the man to take the poison?”
“Laced the whiskey. The bottle found in the shack where he’d been sleeping rough.”
“Francie Jewell said a bottle of whiskey went missing from the Finchley Hall kitchen. And someone’s been sneaking food.”
“The kitchen is rarely locked. Anyone might have gotten in.”
“And then put poison in the whiskey.”
A well-dressed couple on their way out gave us a shocked look and a wide berth. I might have laughed if the conversation hadn’t been so grisly.
I lowered my voice. “Wouldn’t the herbicide have changed the taste?”
“Yeah, but that’s the thing about paraquat. One small sip will kill you. By the time the man realized the whiskey wasn’t right, he’d already have taken a lethal dose. But that’s not what killed him. Most cases of paraquat poisoning are accidental—drinking from a soda bottle that once held the herbicide, for example. The victims realize what they’ve done, check themselves into hospital, and die, painfully, ten to sixteen days later. The killer couldn’t risk that, so he waited until the stranger was helpless—probably sweating, having trouble breathing—then smothered him with something. The coroner’s report confirmed it.”
“Poor man.”
Tom took a long drink of water. “Gedge is about to be interviewed again.”
“What did he say about the spade found in the lake?”
“Noticed it was missing. Assumed it would turn up again.” Tom tore off a chunk of bread and dipped it in the olive oil. “The problem with this case is a lack of cohesion. It’s like broken glass. We lay out individual pieces, but we’ve no clue how they fit together.”
“Have you heard from Venezuela?”
“Not a word. We released the results of the pathologist’s report on Tabitha to the press today, all but the pregnancy. I’m not sure it was a good idea, but the guv wanted to show we’ve been doing something. Tabitha’s father is a powerful man with powerful friends. He wants results. Can’t say I blame him.” He eyed me. “Sorry. This isn’t exactly dinner conversation. Let’s change the subject.”
“Good idea.”
“Tell me what you did today.”
“Climbed the bell tower at St. Æthelric’s.”
“I thought you were afraid of heights.”
“I am. I’m also hopelessly inquisitive. I wanted to see where Vicar Foxe saw the stranger the night of the Peasants’ Revolt.”
“I climbed that tower once. Couldn’t see a thing.”
“Why was that?”
“Pitch-black. I raced up and rang the bells a few times. Raced down and shot out of there before anyone saw me.”
“Recently, was this?”
He laughed. “I was fifteen. A dare. It was awful. Villagers rushed outside in the middle of the night, assuming there was an emergency.”
“What happened when you got caught?”
“Never did. I still feel guilty about it.”
“You could confess. I’m sure Vicar Foxe would grant you a pardon.”
Our food arrived. The trout was tender and flaky with a sprig of rosemary and wedges of lemon.
Tom cut a slice of his lamb. “Have you figured out the list Tabitha made?”
“Oh, golly—forgot all about that. I may have solved a mystery.” I told him about the resemblance between the ring on display and the ring in the portrait of Lady Susannah. “The rings themselves, the settings, are almost identical. The biggest problem is the central stone. Legend says Lady Susannah’s ring was a fine Burmese ruby, engraved with the image of a griffin, the legendary guardian of treasure.”
“Like the Hoard?”
“Exactly like. But the ring I found is a garnet, a nice one, but it’s a far cry from a pigeon’s blood ruby.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m not saying anything. I’m wondering if the stones were switched and—” I stopped, unwilling to put my suspicions into words.
“And what? Come on.”
“I’m wondering,” I said, my thoughts taking shape as I spoke them, “if Tabitha was killed because she figured it out. She must have recognized the resemblance to the ring in the portrait. She was careful, methodical. But she didn’t say anything. I can think of two reasons why not. The first is obvious. She was murdered before she had a chance to tell anyone.”
“And the second reason?”
“Because she did say something—to the wrong person.”
“Does Lady Barbara know?”
“She does now.”
I could almost see the gears turning in Tom’s brain. “Have you told anyone else?”
“Just the whole world.” I moaned. “Lady Barbara authorized a press release to increase interest in the exhibit. Alex put it out. It’ll be in all the newspapers tomorrow or the next day.”
Tom dipped a bite of his lamb in a pot of green mint jelly. “This may turn to our advantage. Shake things up. Make the killer nervous.”
Or desperate. “I told Christine and Alex Devereux. I don’t want them to be targets.”
“No, that’s good. If the killer thinks no one knows his secret, he makes sure it stays that way. If a lot of people know, the danger for each individual lessens.”
“That reminds me. Did you find an old book in Tabitha’s room? Bound in pale suede, published in 1822 by someone named Swiggett.”
“She had quite a few books. None fitting that description as I remember. Why?”
“Only a hundred copies were printed. Two have gone missing—one from the Finchley Hall library and one from Ivor Tweedy’s shop. The book may contain the original Hoard inventory. That might tell me if the unnumbered items on Tabitha’s list were
on the inventory made when the Hoard was found but are now either lost or stolen.”
“I’ll check in the morning. If we have the book, I’ll let you know.”
His phone pinged. He frowned at the screen. “Brilliant.” He looked up. “I have to go, Kate. You’re not going to believe this, but there’s been another theft.”
I froze. “Where this time?”
“Tettinger Court near Haverhill.”
“That’s not far from Long Barston. What was taken?”
“A small painting, a court miniature. Sixteenth century.”
Old, rare, valuable—and small.
Tom downed the last of his water and stood.
Jayne Collier appeared out of nowhere, holding our coats. “Give me five minutes. I’ll pack up your dinners.”
“Thanks.” Tom pulled on his jacket. “Kate, is it all right if I drop you at the Hall rather than the Stables?”
“No worries.”
But I was worried, and it wasn’t only the murders and the mystery of Lady Susannah’s ring.
Thieves were circling Finchley Hall.
* * *
Tom’s car pulled up at the entrance to Finchley Hall. “I’m sorry, Kate. I’m saying that a lot these days.”
“Never mind. Just catch the thieves. Finchley Hall could be next.” I unhooked my seat belt.
“I wish there was more we could do. With the recent cutbacks, we’re reacting to crime, not preventing it. Only the most serious cases can be thoroughly investigated—drugs, organized crime. If a house on one of the estates is burgled, good luck to them. If a car is vandalized or a bicycle nicked, forget it.”
“I’ll breathe easier when the exhibit is over and the Hoard is back in the safe.”
“I’ll breathe easier when we catch the killer.”
“Of course. That’s the priority.” I leaned over and gave him a kiss. “Go do what you do best. Well, do some policing, anyway.”
He laughed and kissed my hair. “See you soon.”
The taillights of his car receded, leaving me alone in the cold night air. Stars pricked the black-velvet sky. Moonlight silvered the fountain in the courtyard. From somewhere in the distance, a dove cooed. Nothing stirred.
I pulled up the collar of my jacket. The path to the Stables skirted the garden wall and headed toward the park before making a sharp right turn toward the estate outbuildings and the Rare Breeds Farm. The crunch of the gravel under my feet sounded unnaturally loud in the still night air.
I’d been in England almost two weeks, and Tom and I had spent so little time together. No one’s fault—certainly not his—but my visit was coming to an end soon. In five days I’d be on an airplane, winging my way back to Cleveland. And then what? I loved him, but could our relationship ever be more than it was now? Did I want it to be?
Liz Mallory was right. The life of a policeman—and a policeman’s wife—would always mean the phone call in the middle of the night, the last-minute cancellation of plans, the constant uncertainty, the danger. So different from the calm, predictable life of a university law professor, time measured in syllabi and semesters and scheduled office hours. The closest thing Bill ever got to an emergency was the occasional distraught student turning up at our door to beg for one more chance to take that test or revise that paper. The academic life had suited Bill. It would never suit Tom.
And me?
The question shut down when I noticed the bouncing beam of a flashlight. Someone was walking quickly in my direction from the park. The light stopped bouncing. A snort and a low growl told me I had nothing to fear.
“Fergus, it’s me, boy.” I met Vivian Bunn and Fergus near the Chinese Bridge. The dog, recognizing me, strained so hard against his collar, he choked.
I bent down to rub his soft button ears.
Vivian patted her ample bosom. “You gave me the willies. What are you doing out here in the dark?”
“On my way to the Stables. Tom was called out on an emergency. What are you and Fergus doing out in the dark?”
“Walkies. The little man hasn’t been himself all day, whining and pawing at the door. I thought he might have the collywobbles again. I know I shouldn’t give him table food, but when he stares at me with those pathetic eyes … Anyway, he still hasn’t done anything, and now we’re almost at the Hall.”
The dog winked at me, his pink tongue lolling.
“Going to see Lady Barbara?”
“Oh, dear me, no. After eight she’s in bed with her nightly Horlicks and a book on Audible. I just kept walking, and somehow here I was. Isn’t that right, boy?”
Fergus averted his eyes.
“Oh, all right,” Vivian said. “The truth is I got spooked. I don’t take Fergus for a proper walk at night—just around the cottage to do his business. But he kept pulling and pulling, and before I knew it, I was near the Folly. But then I heard something, and—” She broke off.
“And you thought about Tabitha and the dead stranger. I don’t blame you.”
“Not just that. Fergus was acting strangely, sniffing the air, grousing. I got the feeling someone was out there in the dark. I started to run—well, walk quickly—toward the closest place of safety.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “Oh, dear. I’m not usually given to fears and fancies.”
“Why don’t I walk back with you. You can loan me the torch. I’ll return it in the morning.”
“Would you? Although I don’t like the thought of you walking back alone.”
“Got my cell phone.” I held it up. “First sign of anyone, I’ll dial 999.”
We made it to Rose Cottage in ten minutes. Vivian invited me in for a cup of tea, but I declined, saying I wanted to call my mother before she left the shop for the day. It was the truth, although I hadn’t planned it earlier. Now, with the discovery of the ring and the thieves inching closer to Finchley Hall, I wanted her perspective.
I said good-bye to Vivian and Fergus and started back.
The wind had picked up. The bare-limbed tree branches above me creaked. The tall grass on the edge of Blackwater Lake sighed in the breeze. Just ahead, the Folly’s marble columns gleamed in the pale moonlight. I stopped and squinted as I scanned my surroundings. A three-quarter moon illuminated a swath of mossy grass leading to the trees.
The faint scent of burning wood met my nose. The source of the smoke I’d seen earlier?
Switching off the flashlight, I moved cautiously toward the source.
A pinpoint of light flickered through the trees. I crept forward, trying not to make a sound. Curiously, I felt no fear, although the possibility I’d completely lost my mind did occur to me.
Another fifty yards or so brought me to the edge of a clearing. The moonlight shone on a domed structure built into the side of a raised earthen mound. The old icehouse. Outside, a small fire burned, and near it a man huddled on a log, his short-cropped blond hair gleaming in the soft light.
“Peter.”
His head snapped toward me. “Leave me alone.”
“The police are looking for you.”
“Figured they would.” He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his jacket.
“The DNA testing?”
A quick nod. His face contorted.
“You’re the father of Tabitha’s baby?”
Another nod.
“Did you kill her?” Did I just say that?
“Of course I didn’t kill her.” I heard the anguish in his voice. His shoulders slumped. “I loved her. We were going to be married.”
“Then why are you hiding?”
He hung his head. “Because I’m a coward, that’s why. If her father finds out I got his daughter pregnant, he’ll come after me. That’s why Tabs broke up with me. Her father threatened to find out who I was and make sure I’d never work as an architect anywhere in the UK.”
“He told the police he didn’t know your name.”
“Tabs refused to tell him. She knew what he would do—what he will do.” He ran a hand through his ha
ir, causing it to stand on end. “Not that I care, now that Tabs is gone, but my parents sacrificed to send me to uni. First one in the family. Dad worked day and night, extra shifts, a second job. Mom cleaned houses, offices, anything she could find. They scrimped, saved, denied themselves everything.” He choked on the final word.
“Pregnancy takes two people. The Kings will accept that in time.”
He shook his head. “You don’t know her father, his expectations. Tabitha had to be perfect in every way.”
“All right if I sit?” I took a place near him on a fallen log. We were both shivering, and the fire did little to relieve the cold.
In profile, Peter looked so young. I thought of Eric and wanted to comfort him. The fire flared. He scooped up a handful of dry leaves and threw them on top, smothering the flames and sending a plume of smoke upward.
“How did you and Tabitha end up together at Finchley Hall?”
He stretched his legs, warming his feet near the dying embers. “We met at uni, fell in love. Her parents found out about us—not sure how. They demanded she stop seeing me. She was supposed to finish her degree, get a prestigious job somewhere, meet the right sort of lad.” He barked a laugh. “I’m not exactly what they were looking for in a son-in-law.”
“And she agreed to break it off?”
“She did it for me. I know that now, but at the time I was gutted. When this internship came up, I jumped at it. It was a chance to get away, to get over her, get on with things.”
“But that didn’t happen.”
“Oh, I tried. I met Alex and … well, she can be hard to resist. But I couldn’t get Tabs out of my mind, so I broke it off. At the end of August I went back to Norwich. I had to see her, tell her that I was prepared to wait—as long as it might take. She felt the same. That’s when she must have gotten pregnant, although neither of us knew at the time. I told her about the internship program at Finchley Hall. Lady Barbara was looking for someone to design the Hoard exhibit. Tabitha told her parents—not about me, of course—and they agreed. I was over the moon. This was our chance to be together without having to sneak about.”
“But you would have had to face them eventually.”