by Connie Berry
Suddenly I felt exhausted—probably crashing from the carrot cake sugar high.
Five minutes until four. I breathed a sigh of relief. We’d done it. All that was left now was closing up and moving the objects back into the safe.
Wrong.
The sound of shouting came from outside, followed by a high-pitched scream.
The door flung open. “Someone’s hurt,” a woman cried, her eyes wild. “I think her leg’s broken. Is there a doctor?”
I spun around to find Dr. Møller.
“Take me to her.” He rushed toward the door. “Marta, get my bag from the car.”
The theft must have happened in that very moment.
* * *
“Are you sure the ring is the only thing missing?” Tom and I stared at the empty Plexiglas cube that had once held Lady Susannah’s ring.
“Everything else is still here.”
“The ring was mounted on a small acrylic pedestal, right?”
“With a speck of clear museum gel. Just like you saw it yesterday. The thief took the whole thing.”
“And got away in the confusion surrounding the accident.”
“You mean the pretend accident.”
By the time Dr. Møller had arrived at the scene, the so-called victim had vanished, as had the woman who’d burst in, asking for help.
“The whole thing was a setup,” I said. “Now that I think about it, it doesn’t make sense. If there’d been a real accident, why run first to the archives building? Why not find a constable or one of the community support officers?”
“The thieves count on instinct,” Tom said. “The natural human desire to help someone in need.”
“And the natural human desire not to miss a good crisis. Every single person in that room, me included, turned toward the sound and then rushed to the windows.”
“Of course you did.”
“But we’d been warned,” I wailed. “I’d been vigilant all day, Tom. Then, when my guard was down, when I thought we’d made it through without an incident, someone shouts about an accident, and I forget all about theft and diversions.”
“The perfect con. You can’t prepare for it. You react as they know you will.”
“They must have been shocked when there actually was a doctor on the scene.”
“Witnesses said the so-called victim and her helper ran like the devil.”
“All planned out in advance.”
“Meticulously. We believe each of the recent burglaries involved a team of players with specialized roles—the actual burglar, those in charge of creating the diversion, any number of bit players.”
Including a vicar? No, of course not. That was too far-fetched, even for me. The theft couldn’t have anything to do with the recent deaths—could it? I felt sick.
One of the SOCOs pulled down his white hood and stripped off his latex gloves. “We’re finished here, sir. Several clear prints on the Plexiglas cube.”
I had the sinking feeling they’d turn out to be mine.
Outside, Sergeant Cliffe was completing his interviews with the visitors who remained. At the time of the theft—virtually closing time—most had already left the estate.
The members of the final tour group had been searched and questioned. The Møllers had given their statements first and driven off for a family dinner, leaving Dr. Møller’s business card in case the police needed to speak with him again. I’d given a description of the woman who’d asked so many questions about the ring. Ivor was sure the thief had been a man with—his words—shifty eyes and a suspicious limp. He’d limped off, promising to spend the evening choosing several items to tempt the elusive collector.
Tom was examining the plinth that had held the ring. I watched him, marveling over the thief’s finesse. He or she couldn’t have had more than a few seconds to do the deed.
The door flew open.
“Will the tragedies never end?” Lady Barbara, followed by Vivian and Mugg, clutched her rose-wool coat around her thin frame. Her normally pale complexion was tinged with gray. “It’s the lives lost that matter, but this latest outrage feels like piling on. How can we ever—”
“Now, Barbara.” Vivian cut across her words. “CCTV has shots of everyone present today. The police will find the thieves—I’m sure of it.”
Tom rubbed an eyebrow. I didn’t think he shared Vivian’s optimism. “I have some information, Lady Barbara. Shall we stay here or find somewhere more comfortable?”
“Whatever it is, you may as well say it now.”
“We spoke with the authorities in Venezuela. I was on my way here to give you the news when I got the call about the theft.”
“About Lucien?” She grasped Vivian’s hand.
“Not directly. The Venezuelan police have promised to redouble their efforts to find him—if he’s still in the country.”
“Of course he’s there,” she said. “He sends letters.”
“What we learned last night, and what we’ve spent most of today confirming, concerns the murdered stranger. You were right. His name was Carlos Esteva from one of the major crime families in Caracas, well known to the authorities. He dropped off their radar twenty-some years ago. They assumed he’d either fled the country or was dead.”
“He’d been in England the whole time?” Vivian asked.
“No. He arrived about a week before he made contact. Paid for the flight with a stolen credit card and was traveling under an assumed name and a fake passport.”
“What did he want with me?” Spots of pink appeared on Lady Barbara’s pale cheeks. “Have you discovered a connection to Lucien? Did he have a message? Or did Lucien send him to … to …” She grasped the edge of the counter. “I need to sit down.”
Mugg sprang to life, locating a chair in the gift shop.
She slumped into it. “I feel so confused.”
“Would you like tea?” I asked. “I have supplies in my office.”
“Tea—yes, exactly what I need.”
“I’ll go,” Vivian said. “You stay with her.”
“We’re still trying to locate your son,” Tom said. “We will find him.”
The fortitude I’d seen in Lady Barbara seemed to be ebbing away. First the murders, now the theft. How much more could she take?
Vivian returned more quickly than I’d thought possible. “We should cancel the celebration tonight.”
“No.” Lady Barbara’s tone was firm. “The party will go on. Just because an evil person committed a crime is no reason to cancel. This is for the volunteers. Wine and hors d’oeuvres in the Great Hall at seven. Kate, will you make sure the interns know?”
“Of course.”
“You, too, Inspector Mallory. If you’re free.”
Later, Tom and I walked toward the knot of police gathered outside the dovecote gift shop. The crime scene investigators were still processing the courtyard.
The winter sun was dipping below the horizon. Tom tucked my hand into his arm. “How long will it take to put all the items back in the safe?”
“Not long if I have help. Christine will be there—and Alex, I suppose, although asking them to work side by side might not be the cleverest move. I could pull in Mugg, but he’s glued to Lady Barbara, and they’ll be getting ready for the celebration.”
“Do you need me?” His breath hung in the air for a moment.
“Yes, but not for that.”
He gave me that slow half smile, and I was aware of eyes watching us. “Will you come tonight? Bring Sergeant Cliffe. I like him.”
“We’ll try. We’re still checking for similar reports of burglary. And we’ve had a breakthrough in Tabitha’s murder. DNA under her fingernails. We’ve sent samples off to the lab. If the killer has form—if he’s known to the judicial system—we’ll find a match.”
“And if you don’t?”
He lowered his voice, and I saw a gleam in his eye. “Every male connected with Finchley Hall submitted a DNA sample, including Gavin Collier from th
e Three Magpies and Vicar Foxe. This is no longer just about identifying the father of Tabitha’s baby. We may already have the DNA of her killer.”
Chapter Thirty
I took a sip of sparkling wine. Bubbles tickled my nose, but the celebration marking the successful completion of the Hoard exhibit felt less than festive.
On the one hand, the exhibit had been an unqualified financial success. The number of visitors had far outstripped estimates, and every catalog had been snapped up. Lady Barbara would have to republish. On the other hand, we’d landed with both feet in the thieves’ trap.
I surveyed the crowded drawing room, touched by the villagers’ support of Lady Barbara.
Light from the blazing fire reflected off the silver tinsel and shiny ornaments on the Christmas tree. The green velvet serpentine sofas—no thistles this time—were in their normal place. Villagers milled about, holding flutes of sparkling wine or bottles of beer. The hors d’oeuvres provided by Lady Barbara were basic—fruit, crackers, cheese.
Where was Christine? Where were Alex and Tristan? All the interns knew to arrive at seven. It was nearly eight. Only Peter, Michael, and Prue had shown up. My stomach clenched as I pictured Christine and Alex in hand-to-hand combat with Tristan blithely looking on. Or worse.
“Hello, Mrs. Hamilton.” Prue Goody brushed crumbs from her mouth. “I’m terribly sorry about the theft.”
“We all are. Have you seen Christine?”
“I thought she was with you. She left our room at six thirty. I assumed she was on her way here.”
“Did she say anything?”
“Just that she’d see me later.”
“Have you seen Alex?”
“No, and Michael’s been looking for Tristan as well.” Prue gave me a look that reflected my own concern. Then her face brightened. “Oh—there’s Tristan now.”
Tristan Sorel, wearing a black military-style jacket over jeans, grabbed a bottle of beer from a tub of ice. He popped the cap and downed nearly the whole bottle.
A hand bell rang. Everyone turned toward the hearth, where Lady Barbara stood with Vivian Bunn. Fergus sat at their feet, observing the guests with benign condescension.
Vivian held Lady Barbara’s arm.
Mugg, on the opposite side of the hearth, appeared uncharacteristically agitated. I could understand that. No one had listened to his warnings of theft; now he’d been proven right. He rang the bell again. The room quieted.
The vicar dashed in, a coat over his arm. Sorry I’m late, he mouthed to anyone who happened to be looking. Hattie Nuthall, who was already there, took his coat and bustled it out toward the coatracks in the library.
Lady Barbara surveyed the crowd, her eyes shining. “Thank you for coming, and thank you for your loyalty and your generosity.” She wore a sapphire silk dress, old but well pressed, with a matching wool cardigan. “We couldn’t have pulled this off without your support. Even as we come to terms with the brazen theft of Lady Susannah’s ring, the memory of this day will remain a happy one because of you.” She held out both thin arms. “The loss of the ring, we can bear. What we cannot bear is the loss of our dear Tabitha King, a gifted young woman who would have made her mark in the world. We shall never forget her or what she did to make this day possible. This exhibit was her doing, and I refuse to allow the tragic way her life ended to tarnish her memory. Please join me in a toast.” Lady Barbara raised her wine glass. “To the memory of Tabitha King.”
“To Tabitha.” Glasses clinked.
Lady Barbara handed her wine glass to Mugg. “I have full confidence in the Suffolk Constabulary,” she continued. “They will find and punish the person responsible for Tabitha’s death. And I have no doubt they will find the ring and return it to its place in the Hoard.” She raised her eyes toward the Finchley crest above the fireplace. “Fidelis, fastu, fortitudo. Loyalty, pride, courage.”
The audience burst into applause.
Lady Barbara stepped away from the hearth and allowed Mugg to lead her to one of the serpentine sofas.
Briony Peacock sidled up to me. “Too bad all who claim loyalty to the Hall aren’t ’ere tonight.” Her cheeks blazed with righteous indignation. Or alcohol. “That’s newcomers for you. Out for themselves, innit.”
“If you’re talking about the Colliers, they have a good reason for not being here. Thanks to the Hoard exhibit, they have a full house of restaurant patrons and overnight guests.”
Briony sneered. “Long as it benefits them, eh? Now us—we closed the Arms tonight. Locked the doors. There’s loyalty for you. We’re ’ere.”
Along with all your patrons. “I’m sure Lady Barbara appreciates your presence.”
I heard Christine’s voice across the room. Thank heaven.
I found her, laughing with Prue and Michael at the hors d’oeuvres table. I wanted to take it as a sign she was getting over Tristan, but it was always the same with Christine—quick to give her heart, slow to take it back again.
Tristan stood alone, looking smaller, thinner—diminished. Had Alex given him the chop?
Peter had joined Lady Barbara on the sofa. My heart ached for him. If he were my son, I’d insist he come home to grieve. But he wasn’t my son, and who was I to say he should give up everything his parents had sacrificed for?
Peter bent his head toward Lady Barbara. She laid her small, wrinkled hand on his. Maybe Lady Barbara was exactly the person Peter needed right now. And vice versa.
Suddenly conversation quieted. Tom and Sergeant Cliffe had arrived.
Cliffe headed for the hors d’oeuvres table, his tie flapping.
I caught Tom’s eye. He smiled. What an attractive man he is. He wore a pair of beautifully tailored trousers with a checked shirt and warm cocoa V-neck sweater that made his hazel eyes look—
“Sorry we’re late.”
“No problem.” My toes tingled. “Christine just got here, too. Any updates?”
“None I can talk about.” He gave me a meaningful look. “We’re going through the camera footage inside the archives building. It’s a shame the camera was pointed at the entrance, not at the ring and portrait.”
“How were we to know which object would be the target? At least the thief will have been photographed.”
“Too bad he wasn’t wearing a sign identifying himself. The thieves will have to make another move. Contact a buyer honest enough to call the authorities. Attempt another heist.” He took a breath. “We did get a good shot of the woman who burst in, saying there’d been an accident. She’s our best bet at this point.”
“How about the pretend victim?”
“Descriptions are vague. Medium height and weight with nondescript hair and an ordinary face.” He looked at me. “You’d never make it as a thief, you know.”
“Why not?”
“Too memorable.” He put his arm around me and tugged my hair. “Nordic-looking woman with ice-blue eyes and hair the color of mahogany? You’d be caught the same day.”
“Are you chatting me up?” I grinned. “Want a glass of sparkling wine?”
“Better not. I have a feeling this night isn’t over yet.”
Why did that send a chill down my spine?
I handed Tom one of the hors d’oeuvres plates. “I’ve been thinking about the stolen ring.”
“And?” He chose a cluster of purple grapes and a few cubes of Cheddar.
“I’m wondering why the thieves stole the ring rather than one of the more valuable treasures—the Finchley Cross, for example, or that bronze-and-silver chalice I showed you. I could understand if the stone had been a Burmese ruby, but I’m certain it wasn’t.”
“Maybe they assumed the stone was a ruby.”
“Maybe. But they planned it out in advance—you said so. They aren’t novices. They know what they want. These theft-for-hire rings operate like an Amazon fulfillment center. Someone goes shopping—they see an object they want, either online or in person. They order it. It arrives on their doorstep, metaphorically spe
aking, in days. A bit of an exaggeration, but I think someone wanted Lady Susannah’s ring in particular, even with a garnet rather than a ruby. For some reason it was valuable to them.”
Tom rubbed the back of his neck. “Interesting analogy. And if we find the ring, we’ll know if you’re right. But I don’t see how your theory will lead us to the thieves.”
“You said you were contacting other police units around the country, asking if they’d had similar burglaries. How about contacting antiques collectors to see if any of them specialize in early Elizabethan jewelry?” I considered telling him about the elusive collector Ivor had contacted, but we knew nothing about him yet. No name. No address. And no grounds to accuse him of anything but eccentricity.
“We might just do that,” Tom said.
“Ivor Tweedy’s asking around. If he comes up with something, I’ll let you know.”
“Good, but back to the Amazon thing for a moment. This theft shows all the signs of advance planning. How would a collector even know about the ring? Except for you and possibly Tabitha, no one knew it was in the safe until the newspaper article on Thursday.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. Your mother said Lady Barbara chooses a few new items every month to display in the library along with the Finchley Cross. Maybe the ring had been on display at some point. Someone might have seen it during one of the regular weekly tours.”
“And neither Lady Barbara nor anyone else recognized it? Is that possible?”
“Let’s ask her.”
We caught Lady Barbara just as she and Vivian were leaving.
“I think I’ve had all I can take tonight.” Lady Barbara leaned on Vivian’s arm. “Will you join us in the sitting room?”
“We can’t—I’m sorry. But Tom has a question about the ring.”
She listened. “On display? It’s possible. I haven’t personally chosen the items for some time—my vision, you know. For the last several months, Tabitha had selected them. I’m afraid I don’t remember which ones she chose. Alex might. Is she here tonight?”
“I haven’t seen her,” Vivian said. “Odd, too, because she promised to help with the party.”