by Connie Berry
“In a way,” I said. “We found a receipt for the book, but there’s no name or address.” I handed him the paper.
“Ah, yes. Remember the chappie now. Refused to give his name. Said the only way to contact him was by text.” He tapped the paper. “Mobile number. Right there.”
“Only by text? Do you remember anything else about him?”
Reginald narrowed his eyes. “Very pale, what I could see of him. Wore a scarf over the lower part of his face. A brimmed hat. Tinted glasses. He was interested in another book, now that I think of it. When I told him it wasn’t for sale, he said if I changed my mind I should text him.”
I copied the mobile number in my notebook. We thanked Reginald Pye for the tea. The dogs chased us all the way to the car and halfway down the drive, barking raucously.
The cell coverage on the way home was spotty to nonexistent.
“I’ll text him,” Ivor said as we pulled up to his shop. “Ask him to contact me. Then I’ll call a few of the pickers I know. See if they can tell us anything about a collector who communicates by text only.”
“Thank you for your help, Ivor. I’m grateful.”
“No, I should thank you.” He leveraged himself out of the car. “The thrill of the hunt. I haven’t had this much fun since the monkeys got loose in Ulaanbaatar.”
Now that was a story I wanted to hear—but not at the moment. I had barely enough time to freshen up before tea with Lady Barbara.
* * *
I found Lady Barbara in a small sunny room overlooking the Elizabethan Garden. She was alone for once, seated in a chair upholstered in tattered mandarin-yellow silk. In her left hand she held a folded newspaper and in her right a large magnifying glass. A pair of reading glasses sat unused on a side table.
“It’s no use,” she said as I entered and announced myself. “My vision grows worse every day. Will you read this to me?”
She handed me the newspaper. A headline on the first page announced HISTORIC FIND AT FINCHLEY HALL? I read aloud:
A valuable piece of jewelry known as the Blood-Red Ring, belonging to Lady Susannah Finchley, murdered on the 12th of October, 1638, may have been found hiding in plain sight. The ring, thought to have been lost sometime in the late 19th century, was discovered last Tuesday in a large safe at Finchley Hall by visiting antiques expert Mrs. Kate Hamilton of Jackson Falls, Ohio. “The ring is seventeenth century,” said Lady Barbara Finchley-fforde, “and appears to be nearly identical to the ring shown in a portrait of Lady Susannah, wife of the Marquess of Suffolk.”
This historic find has increased interest in the 200th Anniversary Exhibit of the Hoard to be held at Finchley Hall on Saturday, December 19, from 10 a.m. until 4 p.m. Mrs. Hamilton, whose daughter is part of an internship program at Finchley Hall, agreed to complete the exhibit after the tragic death of the Hoard’s curator, Miss Tabitha King, of Hoxne. “The exhibit will be dedicated to Tabitha’s memory,” said Lady Barbara.
The newly found ring will be displayed alongside the portrait of Lady Susannah, painted by an unknown artist in the mid-seventeenth century. A BBC documentary about the Hoard will be aired this spring on BBC Four.
Timed entrance tickets for the Hoard exhibit may be purchased in advance at www.finchleyhoard.co.uk or at the ticket office on the day of the exhibit.
I handed the paper back, wondering how long it would take this newsflash to make it to Donald Preston at the Jackson Falls Gazette. I could only imagine the article. The word snooping was bound to be in there somewhere.
“Without you, we’d never have pulled it off,” Lady Barbara said. “And now this marvelous publicity.” She struggled to hold back tears. “There’s so much to do here, Kate, not only essential things like plumbing and electrics—those will come first, of course—but updating and modernizing. Grants are available, but funds are limited, and we compete with so many others. In the meantime, Finchley Hall declines.”
As if to prove her point, the Louis XVI mantel clock struck a nonsensical thirteen bells.
“England has a rich history and heritage,” I said. “I’ve always been amazed at how much is preserved for future generations—and at such great cost. Please tell me if I’m out of bounds here, but have you ever considered the National Trust or British Heritage?”
“You’re not out of bounds, dear, but I was born in this house. I hope to die here one day.” Her face softened. “Oh, you should have seen the place in its heyday. Picnics in the park, riding the horses for miles without ever leaving the estate. And the view. Do you know my favorite thing to do as a child, Kate?”
I laughed. “Tell me.”
“Climbing up to the roof and just sitting there, listening to the church bells, watching the sheep in the meadow and the wind and sun on the wheat fields. The view is magnificent. You should go up there one day, Kate. There’s a staircase leading from the kitchen. Four flights up, round and round, the stairs narrower with each turn. You duck your head, open the hatch, and there you are.”
One pleasure I’d gladly forgo. “An idyllic childhood.”
“That’s why Finchley Hall must be preserved for future generations. When my son returns to England one day, he shall have a home to come to, a home to pass on to his children and grandchildren.”
From what I’d heard of Lucien Finchley-fforde, this sounded like fantasy, but it wasn’t my place to destroy Lady Barbara’s dreams. Nor Mugg’s, apparently.
As if on cue, Mugg entered the room with a tea tray, which he placed on a rosewood writing table. “Shall I pour, madam?”
“Lovely. Two sugars, please.”
This time, instead of finger sandwiches and petit fours, the tiered glass tray held proper sandwiches, sliced beef on whole-grain bread, and shaved ham on soft egg buns. I was starving. My only lunch had been the fruited cake provided by Reginald Pye.
I bit into a beef sandwich and experienced a nose-clearing explosion of horseradish.
Mugg laid a napkin in Lady Barbara’s lap and handed her a plate with half a ham bun.
He cleared his throat. “May I speak my mind, madam?”
“You always do,” Lady Barbara answered.
“With this latest theft at Tettinger Court, I must entreat you again to postpone the exhibit. The danger is simply too great.”
“That’s as may be,” Lady Barbara said, “but it’s far too late to cancel now. We’ve taken precautions. I refuse to act out of fear.”
“Very good, madam.” Mugg retreated into a corner, his sphinxlike imperturbability replaced for once by a palpable anxiety. Everyone, I’ve learned, has a redeeming grace. Mugg’s seemed to be an unshakable loyalty to Lady Barbara.
“This is the Morning Room,” Lady Barbara said, switching gears. “I remember my mother and grandmother retiring here after breakfast to drink tea and write letters. Strange, because I’ve always liked this room best in the afternoons. Can you see how the sun gilds the brick walls?” We gazed out toward the Elizabethan Garden and the park beyond. “In spring and autumn, sunbeams pick out the ferns on the forest floor.” She took a deep, shuddering breath. “It’s times like this when I feel my loss of vision most keenly, but then I remind myself that others have suffered more and feel quite ashamed.”
“No need.” The lump in my throat prevented me from saying more.
“Your friend, Inspector Mallory, phoned this morning to tell me Peter has confessed to being the father of poor Tabitha’s child.”
I thought of Vicar Foxe and hoped the DNA test would confirm that.
Lady Barbara turned her pale-blue eyes in my direction. “I’m not shocked, you know. I understand Peter and Tabitha were in love. They planned to marry.”
“What will happen to Peter now?”
“I hope he will stay. I’m grown quite fond of him. If you see him, Kate, will you ask him to come to me?”
“Of course.”
“Inspector Mallory also told me Tabitha’s death appears to be unrelated to her pregnancy. Can we be glad about that, do
you think?”
“We can be glad she didn’t take her own life. Suicide is hardest on the survivors. I don’t know about her parents, but as brutal as her loss is for Peter, he won’t have to carry the burden of guilt.”
“The question now is who killed her and why,” Lady Barbara said. “Inspector Mallory didn’t mention the poor man in the Folly. Is there news of him?”
“I believe the police are still trying to find out who he was.”
“I’ve never liked the fact that Finchley Hall is famous for murder, you know. It brings the tourists, but that was all so long ago. Now, with two more deaths, people will say the Hall is cursed. And the horrid part is, instead of putting people off the exhibit, I’m afraid it will attract them. I want the exhibit to be a success, of course I do. But the whole thing feels ghoulish.”
“Let’s hope the police solve the crimes quickly.”
“Yes, of course.” A slight movement of her eyes told me she was troubled.
“I’d like to talk to you about the exhibit,” I said. “And specifically about the publicity surrounding Lady Susannah’s ring.”
“The one bright spot in all this.”
“Not all bright, I’m afraid.” Beads of sweat broke out on my forehead. Why was it so hard to tell Lady Barbara the truth? Perhaps it was her aristocratic beauty, still visible in her fine bone structure and erect carriage. Or perhaps it was an air of vulnerability that made others want to protect her. I steeled myself. She had a right to know.
“The publicity surrounding the ring will bring more visitors—that’s true—but it might also tempt thieves. Mugg may be right.”
A small cough from the corner of the room reminded me that he was still there.
“You mentioned theft the other day.” Her brows drew together, creating a deep furrow between her eyes.
“Thieves are operating in Suffolk right now. They’re targeting stately homes. The objects taken are valuable and small. The police think it may be a theft-for-hire ring.”
Lady Barbara touched her throat.
“I haven’t brought this up to frighten you or to persuade you to postpone the exhibit, but to make you aware. We’ve taken additional measures to protect the exhibit. Tom—Inspector Mallory—has agreed to send two more constables on Saturday. The security camera in the archives building will be positioned to capture every visitor coming through the door. The staff and interns will be on full alert. That’s where we have the advantage. We’ve been forewarned.”
“And forewarned, as they say, is forearmed.”
I wondered if this was true.
A great loss.
On the way back to the Stables, my cell phone rang.
“Mom, we’re meeting at the Finchley Arms. If you and Tom don’t have plans, why don’t you come along?”
That was a first.
“Tom’s on duty tonight, and I just ate. I’ll join you for a drink, though. You go ahead. I’ll be there soon.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
By the time I arrived at the Finchley Arms, it was apparent the interns, my daughter included, had consumed more than their usual share of alcohol. Unfortunate on many levels, not the least of which was the fact that tomorrow was the final day of preparation for the expected crowds that would attend the two-hundredth-anniversary exhibit of the Finchley Hoard. All hands on deck.
I pictured the interns, all five of them—maybe even Alex—showing up for duty with pasty faces and queasy stomachs.
Beer is something I don’t normally drink, but a half-pint of Southwold Bitter sounded a lot safer than the wine I remembered from my first visit. I sat back in my chair, took a sip of the deep-amber liquid, and tried to ignore the din of conversation.
The exhibit itself was complete, but now that I’d found Lady Susannah’s ring (or its twin), some adjustment was necessary. The portrait of Lady Susannah wearing the ring would be moved to a prime spot at the far end of the room, where an overhead spotlight would focus on the painting and a plinth displaying the ring. Visitors could compare the two and make up their own minds.
Other tasks yet to be completed included setting up ticket booths and establishing roped-off queues in the yard and in the exhibit space for crowd control. Moving visitors along a predetermined path would allow each person a clear view of the objects and, more importantly, give the designated observers a clear view of the visitors.
The catalogs would be delivered in the morning and the gift shop arranged with a sales point and credit card machine. The lighting and outside security cameras still had to be positioned and the interns and volunteer staff trained in their various tasks by Alex Devereux. The tearoom in the library would be furnished with small round tables and chairs borrowed from the Café Bistro in Long Barston. Baked goods were currently browning in ovens all over the village. The exhibit was truly a community effort.
Would Tom be there?
I wished he were with me now. The Finchley Arms was even more packed, if possible, than it had been on my first visit with Tom. Music from the jukebox thumped in my chest. People hoisted drinks over their heads to squeeze through the crowd. I was surprised to see Gedge at his usual place at the end of the bar. Next to Peter Ingham.
The interns had co-opted two tables near the miniscule dance floor.
“Hey, Maman.” Tristan raised his pint. His face was flushed. “Wanna dance? Bet you were a champion dancer in your day.”
In my day? “Sorry. My pacemaker might blow a fuse.”
Michael Nash and Prue Goody laughed so hard they spit beer.
“Come on, luv.” Tristan grabbed for my arm but missed and staggered backward.
Prue clapped. “Well done.” She’d traded her shapeless linen tunic for a pair of jeans and a T-shirt with a map of the London Tube. Her coiled hair was pulled into a topknot. She even wore a flattering coral-red shade of lipstick.
Tristan, looking embarrassed, stumbled off toward the bar.
“Where’s Christine?” I asked Prue.
“Loo,” she answered. “Oh, there she is.”
Christine swayed a bit as she hiked her tiny handbag over her shoulder. “Sorry, Mom. I’ve had enough. I’m going home.”
“I’ll drive you.”
“No. You just got here. Tris’ll walk me home.”
You’re the only reason I’m here. “Fine. See you in the morning.”
I watched as Christine found Tristan at the bar. She whispered something in his ear. He shook his head, holding up the pint of beer he’d just purchased.
That’s when I saw Alex. She was talking to one of the local lads, but her eyes, as usual, were on Peter.
“Tomorrow’s a big day,” Prue said.
“I was beginning to think everyone forgot.”
“Just blowing off steam. These past two weeks have been the worst. First Tabitha, then that man. My parents called yesterday. They want me to come home.”
“I can understand that.”
“Michael says whatever happened won’t happen again.” She beamed at him, making him flush. “My work at the Living History Museum is important to my future. Why should I give it up?”
“Loo,” Michael said, and headed for the toilets.
“Christine feels the same,” I said. “And Tristan is here.”
Prue scooted her chair closer. “You know about Tristan, right?”
“Know what?”
“He’s playing her.” She ran her finger around the side of her glass, blurring the rivulets of condensation.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s playing both sides. Christine and Alex.”
“You mean he and Alex—” I couldn’t finish the sentence.
“Obvious. I said we should tell Christine, but Michael said it’s not our business. I thought you should know.”
No words came. Which was a good thing, because Christine appeared.
“Tristan’s staying.” Her mouth was tight. “Let’s go now.”
The ride back to Finchley Hall was painful.
Every time I tried to say something, Christine shut me down. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Fine,” I finally said, “but the steam coming from your ears is fogging up the windows.”
That brought a laugh. Followed by a sob.
As soon as I pulled into a parking spot outside the Stables, she pushed the car door open and ran inside.
* * *
I don’t usually go to bed before nine. That night was an exception. After knocking at Christine’s door with no response, I felt too drained even to call my mother at the shop, which is what I’d planned to do earlier.
I was settling into the duvet when my cell phone rang.
“Sorry I couldn’t phone earlier. How are you?” Tom’s voice.
“Knackered, as you English say. Christine just had another blowup with Tristan. I didn’t handle it well. She’s hurt and embarrassed, and I made it worse.”
“How did you do that?”
“By showing concern. She hates that.”
“Give her time. She’ll come round.”
“I’m not so sure. She sees me as her adversary. Or at least her critic.”
“You can’t help noticing when she’s headed for disaster. You can’t help caring.”
“But do I make it worse? Do I communicate my fears for her, and does she interpret that as not trusting her?” The thought came like a punch in the gut. “She’s right, Tom. I don’t trust her when it comes to men. Why does she always choose the ones who will let her down?”
“She lost her father, Kate. Like you did—and at almost exactly the same age. You know what it feels like.”
“It feels like abandonment. Not logical, I know. When I met Bill, and he was so much older, my mother was afraid I was looking for a father figure.”
“Were you?”
“I didn’t think so at the time. Now I wonder if Bill felt like the safe harbor I’d lost. Fathers are important to boys, I know, but they’re even more important to girls—in a different way. Bill was solid, reliable, predictable, there.”
“And then he wasn’t.”
I sighed. “And then he wasn’t.”
“So Christine is looking for safe harbor, someone who’s there for her. Losing someone unexpectedly is like PTSD and can be just as devastating. I wonder about Olivia—if the loss of her mother is what’s motivating her to give up her place at King’s College and remain at the orphanage in East Africa.”