by Connie Berry
“At that point the only thing I cared about was being with Tabs, seeing her every day, spending time with her. We’d sort out her parents later, I thought.” He huffed.
“When did she tell you about the baby?”
He swallowed hard. “She didn’t. Alex got to her first—told Tabs we’d had a relationship. Alex flaunted it, made it sound like I’d pursued her when it was the opposite. I tried talking to Tabitha, explaining, but she was so hurt.” He clenched his fists.
“And when she died …” I let the words trail off, wanting him to complete the sentence.
“When she died, I thought—” He choked and tried again. “I assumed she’d killed herself, like everyone else. Do you have any clue how I felt?” Tears trickled down his cheeks. “When I found out about the baby, it was worse. Much worse, because it was my fault.”
“Tabitha didn’t kill herself, Peter. You know that now. She may have been terribly hurt, but she would have told you about the baby. You would have had a chance to make things right again. You’re not the one to blame. Her killer is.”
Peter swiped at his eyes. “I can’t stop thinking how she must have felt.” His eyes filled. “She died believing I’d tossed her aside for someone else. I’m … I’m not sure I can live with that.” His covered his face with his hands.
That’s when I saw the gleam of dark metal in his jacket pocket.
Peter had a gun.
I froze.
Was he planning to kill himself? Or Alex?
What should I do? If I tried to grab the gun, there’d be a struggle. The gun might go off.
I took a steadying breath and held out my hands toward the fire where he could see them. “I thought handguns were illegal in the UK.”
His hand flew to his pocket. “The gun’s legal. We keep it for foxes, predators.”
“What were you planning to do with it out here?”
“Nothing. I—” His voice cracked.
“I’d feel a lot better if you gave me the gun, Peter.”
“It’s dangerous.”
“I know that.”
Our eyes met for a long moment. “Peter, I’d like it very much if you gave me the gun.”
He seemed to collapse. “What does it matter now?” He handed me the gun, handle first.
I know nothing about guns. This one had a long barrel with a curved, rodlike apparatus protruding from the handle. I laid it on the ground, near me but beyond his reach. “Does Gedge know you took it?”
“Shouldn’t think so.” His voice was barely audible.
The fire popped. I nearly jumped out of my skin.
We sat for a long time without speaking.
Finally I said, “Right now you feel your life is over. I felt the same way when I lost my husband. You will survive, even though you can’t imagine it. The important thing to remember is that Tabitha’s death wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t. She loved you. You would have worked things out. Don’t let her killer take your life as well as hers. What we need to do is find this person and make sure he—or she—is held accountable.”
He nodded.
“Do you know Gedge was taken to the police station for questioning?”
Peter’s head jerked up. “Why? He didn’t kill Tabs. He tried to convince me to tell the police about the baby.”
“Then he needs your help.” I was tempted to ask Peter about the spade and the can of paraquat, but even if I’d had the right to ask him—which I didn’t—it would be best for Peter if he knew nothing about the murder weapons. “You need to talk with the police. The sooner, the better.”
“What a mess.”
“Yes, it’s a mess. That why you have to go back.” I held up my cell phone. “I’m going to call Inspector Mallory right now. Then we’ll walk back to the Hall together. Okay?”
He said nothing, which I took as a yes.
“Was there anyone from the village Tabitha spent time with?”
He shook his head. “Just the vicar. I think he was counseling her.”
I thought of the vicar’s boyish good looks and toned physique. He was probably thirty-five, but he looked younger. “One more thing, Peter. The day of Tabitha’s death I saw you and Gedge near the garden shed. He handed you something, a piece of paper. You ripped it up and threw it in the fire.”
“Oh, that. It was a note from Alex. She said she was sorry. She wanted us to talk.”
“And you wouldn’t do that.”
“Too right, I wouldn’t. Alex might as well have stabbed Tabitha in the back.” His fingers clenched and unclenched. “Tabs died believing I’d betrayed her, and that’s something I will never forgive. Never. Alex will pay for what she did. I’ll make sure of it.”
Oh man. This really was a mess, and no soothing words from me were going to solve it.
I pulled out my phone and punched in the numbers.
“Tom, it’s me. I’m with Peter Ingham. He has something to tell you.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tom must have flown along the narrow Suffolk roads, because he arrived at Finchley Hall less than a half hour after I called him.
Peter and I watched him, walking alone, toward the Folly, where I’d told him to meet us.
“Hello, Peter. I’m glad you’ve decided to talk. Much better this way.”
Peter hung his head.
“You had us worried,” Tom said.
“Sorry.”
I gave him Peter’s gun, which turned out to be a long-barreled revolver with a wrist brace. Tom gave me a look that said Did he threaten you? I shook my head.
“Let’s go,” Tom said. “My car’s in the courtyard.”
“Are you arresting me?” Peter asked.
“Not if you haven’t committed a crime. As long as you answer our questions, you should be back here later tonight.”
DS Cliffe was waiting for us at the car. They drove off and I walked back to the Stables, questions swirling in my brain. Was Peter really the father of Tabitha’s baby? She hadn’t told him he was. She’d arrived at Finchley Hall around the time she got pregnant. Peter’s affair with Alex Devereux might have driven her to the vicar. Getting a vulnerable young woman pregnant would end his career—or should. Did Peter assume he was the father of Tabitha’s baby because he couldn’t imagine her with anyone else?
The DNA testing would tell.
At just past ten at night, the Stables were quiet and dark. In my room, I undressed and got ready for bed, but I couldn’t shut my mind off. I was about to get up and make myself a cup of tea when my phone rang. Pushing up on one elbow, I flipped on the swing-arm lamp.
“It’s me. I just wanted to make sure you were okay.” Tom’s voice.
“I’m fine. Can’t sleep.”
“Figured that. I knew you’d be wondering.”
“What happened?”
“We let them both go—Gedge and Peter. They should be back at Finchley Hall within the hour. No charges.”
“Are they related?”
“Distantly. Gedge’s grandfather and Peter’s great-grandmother were siblings. Something like that, anyway.”
“So I was right.”
“As always.” I could hear the smile in his voice.
“What did they say about the spade and the can of paraquat?”
“They knew the spade was missing; they’d talked about it, assumed one of them had left it in the garden somewhere. We interviewed them separately. Peter was stunned when we told him about the paraquat. Speechless.”
“And you believed him.”
“No choice. Peter and Gedge say they were together in the garden when Tabitha was killed. Peter was with the rest of the interns when the male stranger was killed. Gedge was in the Finchley Arms. The barkeeper confirmed it. Pays to have a local.”
“Did you get a sample of Peter’s DNA?”
“No problem.”
“When will you get the results?”
“In a few days. Why? Do you doubt he’s the father?”
“N
o, but it will be nice to have one question answered. Have you learned more about the theft at Tettinger Court?”
“Same MO as the others. Guided tour of the house. Lots of questions. The only thing taken was that miniature painting.”
“Tom, I think these houses are targeted because they’re open to the public and because they can’t afford sophisticated antitheft equipment. The objects taken are old, rare, and easy to conceal—not likely to be noticed immediately. The thieves take what they’ve come for and nothing else.”
“You mean a theft-for-hire ring.”
“Exactly. Collectors identify objects they want and commit to a purchase price in advance. The odds of the police catching the thieves is low because they never hold on to the stolen goods long enough to be traced. And the collectors are rarely caught because the objects never see the light of day. For an obsessive collector, it’s about possession, not publicity. Collecting famous art and antiquities can literally become an addiction.”
“Lady Barbara may want to ramp up security.”
“If you mean adding electronic surveillance, it’s too late, even if Lady Barbara could afford it. The Hoard exhibit is one day away.”
“There are measures you can take. Requiring visitors to check their jackets, handbags, backpacks—the obvious places of concealment.”
“And we will, but couldn’t the police spare a few more constables? Additional pairs of eyes is what we need. The last thing these thieves want is attention. What they do is subtle, sleight of hand. They’re good at it, and they rely on the fact that everyone else is looking at the objects. We need more people watching them.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” I heard him yawn. “Try and get some sleep.”
We’d hardly said good-bye when the phone lit up again with a number I didn’t recognize.
“Hello. Kate Hamilton here.”
“Oh, Kate.” Ivor Tweedy sounded startled. “I expected to leave a message at this time of night. I should have waited until morning, but I wanted you to know right away, right away.”
“Know what?”
“I was searching through my book collection one more time, in case the book on the Hoard had been misshelved.”
“You found it?”
“No. Wish I had. But what I did find may be almost as good. A partial manuscript.”
“Of the Swiggett book?”
“No, listen. A few years ago I bought several lots of books from an estate sale—the estate of a man who’d been writing a book about the history of Suffolk. He’d planned to include the Peasants’ Revolt, the deaths associated with the Hoard, and the rediscovery of it all those years later. He never completed the manuscript, but he used the Swiggett book as a source. I’d forgotten all about it until today.”
“Are you saying he made notes about the inventory?” I held my breath.
“No. But the point is, he owned a copy of Swiggett’s book. Someone purchased it. Not me. I remember asking at the time. What I’m saying is we might be able to track down the buyer.”
“How, if the original owner is dead? He can hardly tell us from the grave who bought it.”
“No, but his son might. It was the son selling off the father’s things. Nice chap. A barrister, I believe. He might remember the Swiggett book and the person who bought it.”
“What’s the son’s name? Where does he live?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to recall all evening.”
I held my tongue. As much as I appreciated Ivor’s kindness, how was a vague memory going to help?
“Until,” he said, stopping me in my tracks, “I started thumbing through a few of the books.” He chuckled. “There it was, big as life on the bookplates. ‘The Honorable Ridley Pye, Q.C. The Willows, Lavenham.’”
“Ridley Pye is the son?”
“No, the father. But the son, as it happens, lives in the same house. I spoke with him not twenty minutes ago. Reginald Pye.” I pictured Ivor grimacing in pain as he bounced on the balls of his small feet. “I told him what we were after. He promised to dig out the documents from the sale. We could go tomorrow if you have time.”
“I’ll make time. How far is Lavenham from Long Barston?”
“Forty minutes unless there’s traffic. I have an appointment in the shop at nine—a buyer from Edinburgh. How about eleven?”
“As long as we’re back by three. I promised to have tea with Lady Barbara at four thirty, and there are a few things I want to do before then.”
“I don’t see why not. The only thing is … ah …” He sounded embarrassed. “Well, the thing is, I don’t have a car. I don’t drive.”
“Well, I do. Pick you up at eleven.”
I switched off the light, lay back against the soft pillow, and stared up through the rain-dotted skylight. Was the answer to the mystery of Tabitha’s handwritten list waiting for me in a banker’s box in Lavenham?
Chapter Twenty-Five
Thursday, December 17th
The Willows was a lovely Queen Anne house on the edge of the medieval village of Lavenham. The Honorable Reginald Pye met us at the door, along with four exuberant dogs—two lean springer spaniels, a huge chocolate Lab, and an adorable black-and-white Cavalier King Charles. Dried leaves swirled in, littering the already crowded entrance hall. A mirrored wood–and–cast iron coatrack groaned under the weight of jackets, umbrellas, walking sticks, and leashes.
“Down, girls. That’s enough now. Good girlies—ha-ha. No, I mean it. No jumping.” Reginald Pye was clearly not the leader of the pack. The dogs sniffed and snorted to their hearts’ content, bounding and leaping over one another in their delight and ignoring their master’s attempts to curb their enthusiasm.
“Sorry,” Pye said as one of the springers shoved his nose into my thigh.
“It’s all right,” I said. “I love dogs.”
That’s when I noticed Ivor, his face horror-struck as the Lab stood on her hind legs and licked his nose. I grabbed her by her collar and pulled her down, petting her sleek, square head. “Good girl. What’s her name?”
“That one’s Lucy. The springers are Eve and Betty. And this little girl is Oreo.”
Except for his height—he was well over six feet—Reginald Pye bore an uncanny resemblance to Albert Einstein. Or maybe it was just the wild hair, for he had a ruddy face and a wide, gap-toothed smile. His strawberry-colored corduroy pants were covered with dog hair.
“They’re friendly,” I said, laughing as the King Charles rolled over, exposing a grubby pink belly.
Reginald rubbed the ears of the springers and gave the Lab a playful pat on the rump. “Kitchen. Go.” Scooping up the Cavalier King Charles, he strode ahead of us into a room littered with sofas and chairs covered in plush mulberry. And more dog hair.
“My father’s library is quite remarkable.” He plopped the Cavalier on one of the sofas. Bookshelves lined the walls. Light from three sash windows picked out the gold lettering on the spines. “Long before public libraries existed in Suffolk, libraries like this were open to everyone in the surrounding area—country ministers, doctors, teachers, lawyers, even a schoolchild or two in search of information.”
“I believe you sold some of your father’s books after his death,” I said, attempting to move the conversation forward.
“My father was a brilliant man. Sadly stricken with a form of dementia in his later years. He became disorganized, eccentric, obsessive. That’s what prevented him from finishing his book on the Hoard. Books were his particular obsession. He bought them by the yard, without any thought as to where he would shelve them. I sold only the most recent purchases.”
“Like the Swiggett book?” I asked hopefully.
“Yes.” He tapped the end of his nose. “I do regret selling that one. Quite valuable these days, I understand.”
“Have you found the receipts you mentioned?” Ivor chimed in. Bless him.
“Ah, the receipts.” Reginald Pye raised his right index finger as if dazzled by an epi
phany. He dashed out of the room and returned carrying a box, not the banker’s box I’d pictured but an ordinary cardboard box, sagging under the weight of its contents. “The receipt, if I have it, will be here somewhere.”
“Are the papers in date order?”
“Ha!” He crowed as if I’d meant it as a joke.
I was beginning to wonder if dementia ran in the family.
“Feel free to tiptoe through,” he said. “I’ll take the lovely girls for a walk while you get stuck in. Tea?”
Two hours later, after drinking three cups of smoky lapsang souchong and consuming several of the fruited cake slices on the tea tray, I stopped and stretched my back. We were nearly through the seemingly endless receipts from the estate sale of the Honorable Ridley Pye, QC. Ivor had previously separated the papers into two great piles on the round table in the center of the room, one for himself and one for me, and we’d begun the tedious process of reviewing each slip of paper, some as small as a Post-it.
“A hopeless cause.” I finger-combed my hair off my forehead. “If the current Mr. Pye is a successful barrister, he must have an amazingly organized clerk to keep him on track.”
Ivor wiggled his eyebrows. “Let’s stick with it. We’re nearly at the end.”
“As long as we’re on the road in a half hour.” I flipped over another receipt. FOUR CROQUET SETS, MOSTLY COMPLETE, 10£ EACH TO MRS. CHATHAM, STOKE-BY-NAYLAND.
We worked in silence for another ten minutes. I was about to pack it in when Ivor straightened up.
“Eureka!” He handed me a piece of lined notebook paper.
I read LOST TREASURE: THE MIRACLE OF THE FINCHLEY HOARD, 1822, BY WALTER A. SWIGGETT. £20. 07778802451. I flipped the paper over. “Where’s the buyer’s name? And what’s that number?”
“No name. Looks like a mobile number. Mine has the same prefix—077.”
“Call it.”
Ivor had a flip phone. He punched in the numbers, listened, clicked off. “No answer. No voice mail.”
Raucous barking in the entryway alerted us to the return of Reginald Pye. “There you go now, girls. Treats all round, eh?”
A minute later he bounded through the library door. “Success?”