by Connie Berry
Hattie placed the folders on the vicar’s desk and took the chair beside me. “We knew it would come out eventually,” she said, repeating the vicar’s words. They’d braced themselves for this day. “I was there, Kate. The young woman in Chelmsford admitted to her parents and to the police that she’d invented the incident to garner sympathy. She’d made similar accusations before—a teacher, a neighbor driving carpool, a family friend. Her parents have put her under the care of a psychiatrist. If you require confirmation, they’ve authorized us to give you their name and address.”
“I had to know.”
“Of course you did.”
“I understand.”
I watched their faces, seeing concern for me. And yet there was something else, some information they weren’t telling me. “You mentioned the seal of the confessional. I respect that, but you were heard telling Tabitha that no one would ever know. You were talking about her pregnancy, weren’t you?”
“How do you know what I said?”
I shook my head, declining to answer. “She’d confided in you.”
He lay the pen on his desk and flicked it with a finger, causing it to spin. “She told me she was pregnant. She didn’t want the father to know. I advised her to tell him but assured her I wouldn’t be the one to give away her secret.”
“Can you tell me anything that might help the police identify Tabitha’s killer?”
Hattie and the vicar exchanged glances.
Hattie pressed her lips together. “Not to identify her killer, no.”
“Hattie,” said the vicar. A warning.
“Well, I’m not under the seal of the confessional.” She lifted her chin. “I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead, but Tabitha misinterpreted the vicar’s concern.”
“There’s no need—”
She cut across him, addressing me. “The vicar is a handsome man.”
He shot her an accusing look, then lowered his head. “Tabitha took my concern for her as something more. She’d been terribly hurt. I tried to let her down gently, but when I heard she’d taken her own life … well, that turned out not to be true.”
Hattie stood and picked up the folders she’d been carrying. “Come Christmas, all that will be over—and not before time, if you ask me.”
“Hattie, that’s a secret.”
She tsked and patted me on the shoulder. “Kate isn’t going to tell anyone, are you, dear? All I’ll say is a certain young veterinarian is going to find an engagement ring under her tree this Christmas.” She made for the door, stopping to add, “And come January, I’m going to hang a sign outside the church saying, ‘Don’t bother. He’s spoken for.’”
“Is there anything I can do for Christine?” the vicar asked as I slid my arms into my jacket.
“Pray.”
Only one door remained now, and I prayed it wouldn’t lead to another dead end.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Monday, December 21st
The ancient town of Bury St. Edmunds was laid out according to the old medieval formula of a square for God and a square for man. We found the address Ivor had been given—no name, mind you—on a quiet street outside Bury’s medieval grid. I wedged my car into a parking space.
The time was exactly eleven AM. I hadn’t told Ivor about my mother’s possible stroke. In four hours I’d make the phone call that might change my world forever, but right now I had to put that aside and focus on Christine and the events at Finchley Hall. The man we were about to see might have the answer I’d been seeking—or at least part of the puzzle.
The three-story brick town house blended in with its neighbors—except for the wrought-iron bars. The windows were shuttered from the inside. No name plaque informed visitors of the occupant or occupants inside. A brass letter slot on the front door gleamed in the afternoon sun.
Ivor hobbled up the steps and turned the bell twist. Moments later the door was answered by a middle-aged woman wearing a dark uniform similar to Francie Jewell’s in her Briggs incarnation, except this one looked new and crisply pressed.
“Come in,” she said without smiling, taking our coats and turning her back. “Follow me.”
A narrow entrance hall led to a reception room where a Regency drum table held a spray of white roses. We followed her along a hallway to a staircase descending into darkness.
I glanced at Ivor behind me. Is this safe?
He shrugged.
As we descended the stairs, I heard Ivor grunting behind me in pain.
I was contemplating retreat when our guide flipped a switch, revealing a dimly lit corridor. Gilt wall sconces lit the way toward what had to be the rear of the house. The maid opened the door to a room, also dimly lit, with high, barred windows. The room was empty—or rather, almost empty. Two chairs flanked a small wooden desk, behind which sat one of the most unusual-looking people I’d ever seen.
The man’s skin, what I could see of it, was nearly translucent, the underlying veins a road map of fine bluish lines. Pure-white hair lay thinly across his skull and gathered in pale clumps at his temples. His head was long and narrow, giving the impression of having been stretched. His lips were thin and colorless. I couldn’t see his eyes. He wore a visor and shaded glasses, even in the muted light.
The man was an albino, I realized, probably suffering from the associated photophobia.
He rose, indicating that we should sit. Dark athletic pants and a loose bomber-style jacket hung on his thin frame. He turned his head toward me. “You must be the American collector. Please allow me to see what you’ve brought.” Curt.
He opened the middle drawer of the desk and extracted a large magnifier.
“I’m Kate Hamilton,” I said. “May I know your name?”
His head snapped up. “Names are irrelevant. If I like what you’ve brought and we settle on a price, you will each sign a statement promising not to divulge any information you might gather as a result of our interaction, including my address. Theft is a constant concern. Is that agreeable? If not, we have nothing more to talk about.”
Ivor smiled beatifically.
“No problem.” I watched his face relax.
“Why are you selling?”
Drat. We hadn’t planned this part.
I opened my mouth, but Ivor cut in smoothly. “She’s a recent widow.” He rubbed his thumb and middle finger together and gave the collector a meaningful look. Needs the cash.
The collector made a small, satisfied sound. We’d passed the first test.
Reaching into my handbag, I took out three small bundles. I unwrapped the first two and placed the jadeite snuff bottle and the ivory statuette on his desk. Then I unfolded the snowy-white cloth to reveal the turquoise glass head of Akhenaten, resting on the black velvet square.
Ignoring the snuff bottle and figurine, he pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves. “I need light.” He reached for a swing-arm lamp on his desk, pulled down the shade, and switched it on. The LED bulb emitted not the sharp white light I’d expected but a warm amber glow. He took a sharp breath. “The heretic king. Eighteenth dynasty. Can you provide provenance?”
“Certainly,” I said, handing him the paper Ivor had given me earlier. “The inlay was purchased from a dealer in Jordan in the early 1960s. You can see the name of the shop at the top as well as the attached certificate of authenticity.”
He handed the paper back. “Read it, please.”
I read. “‘This artifact was exported from Egypt prior to the 1970 UNESCO treaty and complies with all international trade laws and restrictions regarding antiquities. Hussaini, Limited, is a member of the Association of Dealers and Collectors of Ancient and Ethnographic Art.’” I pointed to the embossed seal and signature. “It’s dated February of 1962.”
“I see. And how much are you asking?” He tapped his left index finger lightly on the desk.
I looked at Ivor.
“As Mrs. Hamilton is a collector, not a dealer, she has asked me to represent her in this matter. Th
e asking price is twenty thousand pounds sterling.”
I heard a sharp intake of breath. “Outrageous. I could buy any number of objects like this at half the price.”
“I doubt that,” Ivor said coolly. “And if you could, you would find they were either stolen or reproductions.”
“Hmm.” The skin around the man’s mouth tightened. “Everything I buy is genuine and legal. That’s why I insist on provenance, which you have supplied. However, the sum you mention is out of the question.” He lifted his long chin in defiance.
“In that case,” Ivor said, rising painfully from his chair, “we’ll say good day to you.”
“Wait,” the man said. “I’ll make an offer. Sixteen thousand pounds—not a penny more.”
I glanced at Ivor, who showed no sign of distress. He made a small moue of satisfaction, and I understood. Our collector would have the head at any price, but negotiations would go more quickly if he thought we were willing to bargain. Ivor had a card up his sleeve. Which one, I couldn’t guess.
Ivor allowed the silence to lengthen.
The collector shifted in his chair. “Do we have a deal?”
“Your offer is two thousand less than Mrs. Hamilton is prepared to accept.”
“You’re not willing to bargain?”
Ivor’s blue eyes had that look of childlike innocence again. “We are prepared to bargain—but not for money. I understand you have in your possession a book written in 1822 about the Finchley Hoard. Mrs. Hamilton has an interest in the Hoard and is willing to accept your offer of sixteen thousand pounds and”—he drew out the word—“the book.”
The collector frowned. “I own such a book? How do you know that?”
“A barrister in Lavenham sold the book some years ago to a collector who communicates by text only. I believe he meant you.”
“Possibly, possibly.” He tugged at the collar of his jacket. “I may have purchased such a book, and I’m happy to include it in the sale.”
“You’re familiar with the book, then?” I asked.
“Vaguely, vaguely.” He shook his head dismissively. “Only in the sense that I collect Anglo-Saxon artifacts and thought the book might prove instructive.”
“And has it?”
“I lost interest. My vision is poor. In fact, I have no idea where the book is at the present moment.” He set his lips in a thin line.
I was about to ask permission to search when Ivor preempted me. “In that case, we shall disturb you no longer. We have another potential buyer. Of course, if you locate—”
“No.” Cords in the man’s tortoiselike neck stood out like ropes. “You may search for the book yourselves.” His nostrils flared. “It’s almost certainly among the volumes I keep in my museum.”
Ivor shot me a satisfied look, and I understood what had just happened. If I’d asked permission to search, the man, his cloistered existence fueled by anxiety and suspicion, would have denied us. Instead, ratcheting up his fear that the glass head was about to slip from his grasp, Ivor had gotten him to ask us. Ivor was a genius.
He was also slick. In another life and without the tender heart I was learning to appreciate, Ivor Tweedy could sell ice to a Finn in February.
* * *
The museum, accessed through a locked and reinforced metal door, appeared to have been excavated beneath the back garden. We passed rows of showcases in which precious artifacts rested in temperature- and humidity-controlled environments. I’ve heard of people’s eyes popping, but this was the first time I’d experienced it. My affliction was in full tilt—fingers and toes tingling, cheeks hot, mouth dry, heart palpitating wildly. Every case held objects so amazing, it was all I could do to keep moving.
Ivor, behind me, gave me a little shove in the back.
Every conceivable type of treasure was represented—porcelain, glass, precious metals, jewelry, ivory, icons and other religious objects, carved stone, weaponry, pottery. I caught Ivor’s eye and nodded at a bronze statue of a man holding a silver tray bearing a cluster of natural emeralds. The only comparable statue I’d ever heard of was kept in the fabulous Grünes Gewölbe in Dresden.
Some of the cases were empty, as if waiting to be filled. I wondered where Akhenaten’s head would be displayed. I hadn’t noticed any Egyptian antiquities. Call me suspicious, but I had noticed that most of the artifacts were small, like those taken in the recent thefts.
Unfair. I reprimanded myself. This man insisted on provenance. Just because he didn’t collect full suits of armor or life-size marble statuary didn’t make him a criminal.
A room behind the museum was dedicated to books, many of them guides to various art forms. I recognized several I had in my own library.
“These books”—he indicated the shelf on our right—“have been organized and documented. The book you seek, if it’s here, will be found on the opposite wall or on the table.” A long oak table was piled high with books of all sizes.
He watched as Ivor and I got to work. We scanned the spines, looking for a book bound in soft, pale suede. The search didn’t take long.
“Success.” Ivor held up a slim volume bound in pale suede leather. The leaf edges of the paper had turned a dark butterscotch color.
The collector—it was awkward not knowing his name—exhaled.
Ivor thumbed quickly through the book, closed the cover, and tucked it under his arm. “How do you intend to pay, sir? Check? Money order? Do you need to time to transfer funds?”
“Cash.” The collector pulled a cell phone from his jacket pocket, dialed, and spoke two words: “Sixteen thousand.”
“Glimpsing your treasures has been a great privilege, sir.” Ivor, meek as a lamb, followed the collector out of the room.
“The museum is my life’s work, my raison d’être, you might say.”
He’d turned right instead of left, and we found ourselves in a parallel aisle.
He wants us to see more.
I swallowed hard. Here were the most ancient treasures. Carved figures of wood and stone. Hammered gold and bronze jewelry. Ushabti, the funerary servant figures wrapped in the linen folds of Egyptian mummies. Several real mummies—cats, wrapped snugly in crisscross strips of linen with smooth cloth masks painted with whiskers. I pictured the turquoise glass head in that cabinet.
The next case held a collection of black-and-white Etruscan pots from the fifth century before Christ and—I nearly gasped—treasures from ancient Britain. This time it wasn’t only my fingers and toes that tingled. My whole brain seemed to vibrate as I took in the objects—a gilded bronze helmet; a glass drinking beaker, amazing if for no other reason than that it had survived roughly ten centuries intact; a finely detailed silver brooch in the shape of a Roman shield. Each object would find space in the British Museum. Could our collector really have purchased them legally?
I leaned in to examine a gold-and-garnet cloisonné cuff. Wait a minute. Hadn’t Tabitha’s list mentioned a cloisonné cuff? Next to it was a silver-and-filigree Gospel cover. And a gold pectoral cross set with amethysts. Coincidence?
That’s when I saw it—a ruby of the purest red.
My mouth dropped open. The large oval stone, five carats or more, was mounted on a glass plinth. A tiny LED illuminated an intricately carved griffin rampant—an exact replica of the one on the Finchley coat of arms.
“Mrs. Hamilton, are you all right?” The collector sounded suspicious.
I hurried to catch up. “Sorry,” I said breathlessly. “I couldn’t help myself. Your collection is simply dazzling. What you’ve achieved is … incredible.”
Blood rose in his cheeks, shockingly vivid beneath the pale skin. “Perhaps if you were to text in advance, we could arrange—” He broke off. “But of course you’ll be leaving England soon. Well.” He made a small dismissive movement with his hand.
He’s lonely, I thought. Desperately lonely. I imagined what life must have been like for him as a child, overly protective parents shielding him from the mockery of his
peers. Or, even worse, his parents ashamed of him, hiding him from the public eye. All his life, his unusual physical appearance would have made human contact uncomfortable—children openly staring, adults casting sly glances and whispering behinds their hands.
But I was a fellow collector. We shared a common passion. I was someone who could appreciate his life’s work.
As much as I would have liked to take him up on his offer, my most pressing goal at the moment was getting out of there and telling Ivor what I’d seen. The collector showed us to the door. The maid handed us our coats and a rectangular package wrapped in plain brown paper.
“Sixteen thousand English pounds in twenty-pound notes,” the collector said. “Would you care to count it?”
“Not necessary.” Ivor, trusting soul that he was, handed me the book, took the packet, and tucked it inside his coat.
I was about to ask the collector about the confidentiality agreement we were supposed to sign when it dawned on me that divulging his personal information was exactly what I intended to do. Had the man forgotten or simply decided we weren’t a threat? I wasn’t going to remind him. Any qualms I might have felt under ordinary circumstances were obliterated by an overwhelming desire to clear my daughter of wrongdoing. And that meant following any lead—however unlikely. If this man possessed items stolen from the Hoard, someone else had done the stealing.
“Before we go,” I said. “May I ask where you find these wonderful things?”
Ivor made a small clucking sound. I could tell he was keen to get out of there.
“My condition now prevents me from attending auctions or sales in person. I rely on pickers who know what I want and bring the items to me.” Now that we were leaving, the man had become chatty.
“I’m especially interested in the Anglo-Saxon artifacts.” Ignoring the pressure of Ivor’s arm, I put on what my husband used to call my innocent look.
The collector seemed reluctant to let us go. “There is one picker who specializes in Anglo-Saxon objects. Strange fellow. Always wears a hat. And sunglasses, those reflective amber-tinted kind worn by the military. He comes up with the goods, though—all genuine, all thoroughly documented.”