by Connie Berry
Tom studied the painting, then the ring. “It might depend on which way the lady wore the ring—with the feet toward her or away from her.”
He made a good point. Still, the designs carved into the central stones didn’t completely match. I tried again.
“Look at the artist’s use of light, shadow, and color,” I said. “He communicates both realism and emotion. And that little brush stroke in the intaglio gives the impression of fine detail. Do you see it? Now look at the ring. The image is there but much cruder.”
“Maybe the painter took artistic license.”
“Maybe.”
“You think they’re not the same ring?”
“I don’t know. The settings are nearly identical. The construction of the band is consistent with the time period. The seed pearls are set in a double row. I counted them. Exactly the number in the painting. But the central stone isn’t right. First of all, it’s a garnet, not a ruby. Then there’s the carving. And then the size and shape.”
“Kate Hamilton, solving history’s mysteries.” He gave me that half smile of his.
I gave him a playful shove. “So why are you here? Not just to tease me, I assume.”
“I brought a few of our community support officers to see the place and meet Lady Barbara. They’re with Alex now.”
He must have read the expression on my face. “What’s wrong?”
“Christine and Alex had another fight over Tristan last night. This one got pretty nasty, and it might have gotten even nastier if I hadn’t been there.” I didn’t mention the hurled dishes and the swinging umbrella. Tom was a policeman, after all.
“Fault on both sides?”
“With Tristan in the middle and relishing every minute. I felt like wiping the smirk off his face, but I’m known to the police.”
He laughed. “Here’s one policeman who’d like to know you better still.”
“That sounds like a challenge.” I smiled at him. “Are you free tonight?”
“I wish I were.” He slipped an arm into his waxed jacket. “Skype conference with the authorities in Venezuela. This is our first opportunity to get information on the murdered man—and Lucien Finchley-fforde, with any luck. But I will be here tomorrow for the exhibit. Let’s have dinner afterward.”
“Lady Barbara is holding a thank-you reception for the volunteers at seven. I need to be there.”
“A late dinner, then.”
“It’s a date.”
Telling myself that things do work out sometimes, I slipped on my jacket and hiked my handbag over my shoulder. As we left, I set the alarm and locked the door.
He wrapped a scarf around his neck. “The best news is we’re set for Monday. We’ll have the whole day, Kate. Nothing on God’s green earth will keep me away. I promise.”
Outside in the yard, a team from St. Æthelric’s was trimming a fir tree with tinsel and giant red balls. Vicar Foxe stood near the top of a tall ladder, a foot-high angel in his hand.
“Hullo, Kate.” He lifted his mirrored sunglasses to grin at me. “Could you climb up here and help me for a minute?”
“What?”
“Sorry—poor joke.”
“This is Inspector Tom Mallory,” I called back. “Tom, this is Edmund Foxe, the very amusing vicar at St. Æthelric’s.”
As we walked toward the Hall, I considered telling Tom about the vicar’s counseling sessions with Tabitha King but thought better of it. First I’d do a little research—find out what kind of a reputation the vicar had in his previous parish in Essex.
“Almost forgot,” Tom said. “We got a little more info on that woman. The people at Glepping Park described her as having a northern accent and wearing an expensive-looking suit. At Tettinger Court her accent sounded more like Devon or Cornwall, and she wore conservative country clothing. Probably two different people.”
“What made you think it was the same woman?”
“Same MO. Asked lots of questions. And same basic description—middle-aged, respectable.”
“Oh, she’ll really stand out in the crowd tomorrow.” I rolled my eyes. “Be on the lookout for a curious, respectable, middle-aged woman.”
“No, Kate. Be on the lookout for sudden or unnecessary distractions. And keep your eyes on the treasure.”
* * *
At five o’clock, Christine, Prue, and Michael took themselves off to the Finchley Arms. Alex and Tristan opted for the Café Bistro—a wise move. With so much riding on the Hoard exhibit, the last thing we needed was another fight. Christine seemed to have cut all ties with Tristan, but knowing her history, I wasn’t breaking out the champagne and confetti yet.
All I wanted was a quiet night to myself.
Seeing the vicar on that ladder had given me an idea, a theory that might link the possible thefts from the Hoard with the murders of Tabitha King and the dark stranger. What I liked best was the simplicity.
What if someone—a man, obviously—had taken advantage of Tabitha’s vulnerability after Peter’s betrayal, and what if that man’s ultimate goal was to gain access to the Hoard? It made sense. After winkling the codes for the safe out of Tabitha, he killed her and then killed the dark stranger because he’d witnessed the murder.
The only potential clue to this man’s identity was a pair of sunglasses, and the person I’d just seen wearing sunglasses was the vicar. Time to do a little research on Edmund Foxe.
With the remains of an egg-and-cress sandwich on the desk beside me, I sat cross-legged on my bed, my computer open on my lap. The first thing I did was plug Edmund Foxe into a couple of people-finder search engines in the UK. Quite a few Edmund Foxe’s lived in Essex. None fit the vicar’s age. Then it occurred to me I was looking in the wrong place. It wasn’t current information about the vicar I was after, but his history. Pulling up Yahoo UK, I typed VICAR EDMUND FOXE ESSEX into the search bar and waited.
Bingo.
The article had been published three years ago in the Chelmsford Weekly News.
Edmund Foxe, vicar of St. Botolph’s Church in Chelmsford, was questioned today in connection with an incident alleged to have taken place in July. A woman, age 19, claims the vicar acted inappropriately toward her in his office, where she had gone for counseling. A full investigation is under way.
I followed the link, finding similar articles—then a subsequent article published the following October.
The investigation into alleged improprieties at St. Botolph’s Church in Chelmsford was closed today when the woman who brought the charge admitted the incident never took place.
My breath quickened. Had the vicar been falsely charged, or had the young woman, finding the process too stressful and embarrassing, simply given up? In either case, the church higher-ups appeared to have reassigned the vicar to another parish.
To commit murder?
This was going to take some thought.
If Edmund Foxe was innocent, he needed to be protected.
If he was guilty, he needed to be stopped.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Saturday, December 19th
The day of the Hoard exhibit was more glorious, if possible, than the day before. I stood in the courtyard of Finchley Hall, holding a steaming mug of coffee and watching the sun inch above the horizon. It was eight AM. The sky was a deep purple, shading to crimson and lemon. Blades of grass were silvered with frost. The temperature had settled on a crisp thirty-three degrees.
A film crew from the BBC was setting up a mobile crane shot of the Hall.
I’d managed to sleep in spite of my doubts about the vicar. Instead, Tom’s warning about con artists and sudden distractions had played out in a series of bizarre dreams. The jeweler’s safe, dangling by a hook from a helicopter. A pack of yellow-eyed monsters smashing and grabbing with huge furry paws. Mazes through which I chased burglars brandishing guns shaped like the Finchley Cross.
Sometimes an overactive imagination bites you back.
Steam from my coffee mingled with the icy
vapor of my breath. I wrapped my fingers around the warm mug, feeling oddly comforted. Surely no theft ring worth their salt would risk a heist in the middle of a BBC documentary.
Around eight fifteen, with the sun’s rays slanting through the trees, cameramen began to capture what one of the crew members, a friendly young woman in a knitted cap and quilted jacket, called establishing shots.
“We’re filming the long drive and Finchley Hall now,” she said. “Morning light’s perfect. Later, when the sun’s higher, we’ll get the lake and the line of visitors outside the archives building.”
I watched her making notes and communicating with the film crew in a language comprised mostly of acronyms.
“This lot does the big, outdoor shots,” she told me. “After the holidays, a different crew will come to film an interview with Lady Barbara and take close-ups of the most important Hoard objects.”
The whole thing, she said, would then be edited into a thirty-minute documentary with the antiques expert doing voice-overs from a studio somewhere in London.
By nine, the queue waiting for the exhibit to open snaked halfway down the long drive. The air had warmed. The sun caught the neon-yellow vests of the community support officers. From somewhere in the trees, I heard the familiar chuck, chuck, chuck of a blackbird.
Still carrying my now-empty mug, I walked toward the archives building. After handing the mug and my jacket to one of the volunteers, I did a final walk-through of the exhibit. Everything was perfect. Tabitha would have been proud.
Ivor Tweedy arrived just before ten. He’d agreed to act as a second docent, answering questions and providing background information as needed. I worried that the hours on his feet would exacerbate his hip pain, but he seemed inordinately cheerful. Even two bad hips couldn’t dampen his enthusiasm.
“To think we might catch a gang of thieves,” he whispered. “Thrilling, isn’t it?”
“I’d be more thrilled if they gave us a miss.”
At ten, I peered out the window as the first group, red stickers clearly visible, made their way along the roped lines to the archives building. Was one of these nice, ordinary-looking people a con artist? Ridiculous, I told myself. Everyone was on guard. If anything, we suffered from overkill. Besides Ivor and myself, we had three volunteers to keep watch, plus a community support officer and a police constable. The gift shop was staffed by Glenda and another woman from Long Barston.
The doors opened, and suddenly the room was filled with guests. The air took on the smell of wool sweaters, leather shoes, and warm bodies. After checking their belongings, the visitors strolled past the exhibits with their heads bent and hands clasped behind their backs.
An elderly man with Coke-bottle glasses and a goatee approached me. “Pardon me, but does the card say mammals or animals? I can’t quite make it out.” He indicated a bronze ornamented disc.
“The printing is small,” I said, reading the card for him. “Brooch. Anglo-Saxon, early sixth century. Southern Scandinavian influence, decorated with pairs of animal heads and bands of nielloed triangles.”
“Nielloed? I’m not familiar with that term.”
Was this a distraction? I checked to see if the man had an accomplice. Of course he didn’t. He was just a nice older man with poor vision. “Niello is a decorative metal paste used as an inlay. Some of it’s been lost, but the rough-textured lines show where it would have been.”
He thanked me and walked on.
The stream of visitors was steady. At twelve thirty, Ivor left to grab some lunch. By the time he returned, I’d answered so many questions there’d been no time to stress about misdirection and partners in crime. I needn’t have worried. The worst distraction was a lost coat, eventually discovered on the wrong hanger.
At one forty, Alex found me in the process of explaining to two middle-aged sisters the difference between vermeil, gilded silver, and ormolu, gilded bronze. They were so grateful you’d think I was disclosing the location of the Fountain of Youth. When they finally moved on, Alex said, “Time you took a break. Get something to eat. Relax for an hour or so. I’ll stand in for you.”
I headed for the library tearoom and found it jam-packed, too. The hall outside was lined with people waiting for a table. Christine spotted me. Like the other servers, she wore black slacks with a white blouse and a crisp apron, borrowed from the Three Magpies. “It’ll be at least a half hour before a table opens up,” she said. “If you don’t mind standing, you can eat at the counter.” A portable beverage bar had been set up in front of the windows. She cleared a space for me at one end and brought a bowl of vegetable soup, an individual pot of tea, and a giant wedge of carrot cake with a slice of Cheddar and vanilla ice cream.
Perfect. All the food groups.
I was finishing the last bite when I noticed Vicar Foxe, sharing a table with, of all people, the Danish couple from the ill-fated tour. The fourth chair was empty.
“Hello, Kate.” He waved me over. “Come join me.” He really was an attractive man.
“I can’t,” I said. “I need to get back to the exhibit.”
“Such an exciting day. Everything is perfect.”
So far.
The Danish pathologist stood and made a polite little bow. “We meet again.”
“A more pleasant occasion this time,” his wife added. She was wearing the same beautifully cut wool coat she’d worn the day of the tour.
“We weren’t actually introduced,” I said. “I’m Kate Hamilton. This is Edmund Foxe, the vicar of St. Æthelric’s Church in the village.”
“Dr. Emil Møller,” the man said. “And this is my wife, Marta.”
“I didn’t realize you were staying in the area.”
“We spend the holidays with my wife’s relatives in Suffolk.” Dr. Møller said.
“My bedstemor, my grandmother, was English,” Marta said. “A nurse who came vith the British troops in May of 1945—Befrielsesdag, the day of our liberation.”
“And how is the little boy, Danny?” Dr. Møller asked.
“Ve have been vorried for him,” Marta said.
“His mother says he’s having a hard time.”
“Ah, poor child.” Marta shook her head. “A terrible shock for one so young.”
“Have you seen the exhibit yet?” I asked. “Glenda’s working in the gift shop.”
“Ve are in the final group—three forty.”
“My time slot as well,” the vicar told the Møllers. “I was about to take a stroll in the park. Would you care to join me?”
“Thank you, but no,” Dr. Møller said. “We are not dressed for walking.”
They weren’t. His wing tips were polished to a mirror shine. Marta Møller wore a pair of expensive-looking sling-back heels.
She pulled on her coat and a pair of kid-leather gloves. “Ve thought ve might stay here, in the tearoom, until our time, but I fear ve must leave. So many vaiting for tables.”
“We shall wait in the warm car.” Dr. Møller stood and gave another of his little bows. “We are glad to have met you, sir, and to see you again, Mrs. Hamilton.”
“Sure you won’t sit?” The vicar smiled up at me.
“Maybe just for a moment.” I took a seat, wondering how to turn the conversation to Tabitha King. When nothing came, I dove in headfirst. “I understand you were counseling Tabitha, the girl who was murdered.”
The vicar’s teacup stopped halfway between the table and his lips. “Who told you that?”
“Is it true?”
“Anglican clergymen respect the seal of the confessional.”
“Understood, but if Tabitha confided in you, she may have said something that would lead to her killer.”
“Do the police know?”
“I haven’t told them. You should. In fact, you must.”
Something like anger flashed briefly across his face. Then an emotion I couldn’t identify, but I got the impression he was struggling with a decision. “I know nothing about her death. Nothing th
at would identify her killer.”
“Will you tell the police, so I don’t have to?”
He agreed, reluctantly. I left with the distinct impression he was hiding something, but whether it was an innocent attraction for a parishioner or something more sinister, I couldn’t tell.
When I returned to the archives building, Ivor Tweedy was bubbling over. “I got a text from our mystery man,” he whispered. “He assumes I have something to sell. I didn’t want to respond until I’d spoken to you.”
“If he’s a recluse, he might not welcome a pair of strangers asking questions.”
“You’re right. I’ll go alone.”
“Oh no, you won’t,” I said. “This may be my one chance to see that book.”
He gave me an appraising look. “We could pass you off as an American antiques dealer.”
“Ivor, I am an American antiques dealer.”
“I mean an American antiques dealer with something to sell him.”
“And who will you be? An English antiques dealer?”
“I’ll be a picker, helping you find a buyer.”
“Do we know what he collects?”
“All sorts, a fellow dealer tells me, but rare and old—mostly before the 1700s.”
“Do you have something you want to sell?”
“Let me think on it, dear girl.”
Our conversation was interrupted by a woman who wanted my opinion on the red-stone ring. Was it a ruby? How did we know it belonged to Lady Susannah? Good questions, and they were followed by others. Before I knew it, the time was three forty. The final group entered.
“Goodness me,” I heard Marta Møller exclaim. “I had no idea there vere so many items.”
The Møllers, along with the vicar and twenty or so others, walked from exhibit to exhibit, exclaiming over each precious object, reading the explanatory cards, asking questions.