by Connie Berry
Sunglasses again. “What’s his name?”
The collector stiffened. “I told you. Names aren’t important.”
“Of course not,” Ivor said. “Not important at all.” He tugged on my arm as he backed out the door. “Thank you again, er … sir.”
The door shut, and Ivor bustled me down the steps and into the street. “What was all that about?”
“He’s got the blood-red ruby,” I squeaked.
Ivor’s head jerked up. “Are you sure? We have to inform the police. On second thought, let’s drive there. The police station is less than ten minutes away.”
“Not yet.” I started the car and jammed it into reverse. The last thing I wanted to do was accuse someone without evidence. Actually, that was the second-to-last thing. The very last thing I wanted was to run into Tom. “We need proof. He may have purchased the ruby legally. Let’s check Swiggett’s inventory first.”
“Why?” Ivor narrowed his eyes.
“It’s not just the ruby. He has several objects that fit descriptions on Tabitha’s list.”
“What?” Ivor threw the packet of notes on the floor and grabbed the book. “You drive. I’ll read. But then we really must call the police.”
I pulled into traffic. “Not quite yet.” The pieces of the puzzle had begun to assemble themselves in my mind’s eye. I couldn’t see the pattern yet, not the whole thing anyway, but I knew it would come. “I’ve remembered something, something more important than the blood-red ruby.”
“Like what?”
“Like a monster with yellow eyes.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
By the time we hit the A134 south, Ivor had confirmed that the original inventory, made in 1818 and recorded in Swiggett’s book in 1822, contained exactly eleven more items than the inventory made by Tabitha King. One of the objects I’d seen in the collector’s museum, the ruby intaglio, was a definite match. Three others—the pectoral cross, the silver-and-filigree Gospel cover, and the cloisonné cuff—were definite maybes.
“Is that proof enough for you?” Ivor asked.
“All right, we’ll notify the police, but there’s something I have to check out first.”
“The monster with the yellow eyes.”
“Glenda Croft’s phone number is on a slip of paper in the outer pocket of my handbag. I think Danny’s school is on Christmas break this week. Call her and ask if I can speak with him.”
As Ivor dialed, I prayed they were home, reminding myself again that things sometimes do turn out well.
Glenda and Danny lived on a housing estate on the outskirts of the tiny village of Little Gosling, ten miles from Long Barston. We arrived at one twenty-five—I admit to a lead foot. Glenda and Danny were finishing their lunch.
“Would you care to join us?” Glenda asked us. “There’s tea and biscuits, or I could make more sandwiches.”
“Not this time,” I answered for both of us. “I’d like to talk to Danny.”
The boy sat, sullenly kicking the leg of the table. “Who’s that?” He jerked his head toward Ivor.
“A friend. Mr. Tweedy.”
“I won’t talk to him. Just you.”
“Would that be okay, Glenda?” I asked. “I promise I won’t take long.”
“On second thought,” Ivor said. “I wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea.”
I could have kissed him.
“Wanna see my room?” Danny asked.
I followed him down a short hallway to a room the size of a walk-in closet. A single bed took up most of the space, except for a three-drawer pine dresser, on top of which sat a partially completed Lego project, some kind of spacecraft. Posters of monstrous action figures lined the walls. No wonder the kid had nightmares.
Danny sat on the bed. I pulled up a junior-sized chair.
“Still having bad dreams?” I asked him.
He nodded and hugged his pillow, suddenly shy.
“About the monster?”
He nodded again.
“Can you tell me about him?”
Danny buried his face in his pillow. I was about to conclude this was as much as I was going to get when he raised his head. “I didn’t make him up. He’s real.”
“Okay.” I took an even breath, then another. “Tell me about him.”
He pointed at a poster of an evil-looking droid, his absurdly muscular arm wielding an enormous sword.
“He’s that big?”
Danny shook his head.
“Does he have a big sword?”
“No.”
“What does he have?”
“Dunno. He threw it in the lake.”
Now we’re getting somewhere.
Danny’s eyes were on the poster.
Suddenly I knew what had been bothering me since the day we’d found Tabitha’s body. My mind went back to the scene—Danny shrieking, a rock in each hand, his shoes submerged in the shallow water along the lakeshore. At his feet, wedged against a half-sunken log, was Tabitha’s body. But Danny hadn’t been looking at the body.
He’d been looking at something farther along the shore.
“You’re saying the monster threw something in Blackwater Lake?”
Danny nodded.
“Like a weapon?”
“Dunno.”
“What else?”
“He had yellow eyes.”
“Really?” Yellow. Amber. My heart rate kicked up. The picker who specialized in Anglo-Saxon artifacts wore amber-tinted sunglasses.
“I’m not lying.” Danny’s mouth turned down. “Everybody thinks I’m makin’ it up, but I’m not.” He buried his face in the pillow again.
“I don’t think you’re making it up, Danny. Tell me about the yellow eyes. Can you describe them?”
Danny sniffled. “They glowed in the sun.”
“Think carefully, Danny. Could they have been sunglasses?”
Danny chewed on a fingernail. “Coulda been.”
Sunglasses. Mirrored, amber-tinted sunglasses. “Danny, listen. Tell me if I go wrong, okay?” I spoke as calmly as one can while having heart palpitations. “The day we took that tour, the day you found the body of that girl in the lake, you saw a man in the woods wearing yellow sunglasses. He threw something in the lake, right?”
Danny nodded.
“How far away was he?”
Danny’s mouth bunched to one side. “Like from here to the kitchen.”
About fifteen yards. Pretty close. “What happened to him?”
“He ran away.”
“Why didn’t you tell your mom?” I put my hand on his arm.
“Scared, wasn’t I?”
“I would have been, too. But you should always tell your mom when things scare you.”
“He told me not to.”
“He spoke to you?”
Danny shook his head.
“So how did you know?”
Danny’s normally ruddy face was as pale as his pillowcase. Placing his right forefinger to his lips, he said, “Shhh.” Then, with the same hand, he mimed a knife slicing his throat.
“He threatened you.”
Danny nodded. Telling me this was costing him something. In his own eight-year-old way, this child was as valiant as the superheroes he admired.
“Well, that’s not going to happen,” I said confidently. “Your mom won’t let anyone hurt you, and neither will the police. I think you’re very brave.”
One corner of his mouth went up.
* * *
Back in the car, Ivor and I headed for Finchley Hall. I was flying, in spite of the fact that the sun had given way to dark clouds and a spitting rain. Ivor flinched a couple of times as a hedgerow whizzed past him in the passenger’s seat.
With Danny’s permission, I’d told Glenda and Ivor about the man at Blackwater Lake. When we left, Glenda was on the phone to the police, Danny on her lap.
“Who is the man with the amber-tinted sunglasses?” Ivor asked.
“Could be anyone at Finchley Hall—even
Gavin Collier or the vicar, I suppose. Until we know for sure, I don’t trust any man of any age or description.” I put a hand on his arm. “You excepted, of course.”
“The one person who can identify him is the collector.” He pulled out his mobile. “I’m dialing. Pull off the road so you can talk.”
I stopped in a lay-by. Ivor handed me his phone.
“This is Kate Hamilton. I’d like to speak with”—I was about to say Inspector Mallory but stopped myself in time—“Detective Sergeant Cliffe.”
After several minutes, a familiar voice said, “Sergeant Cliffe speaking. Kate, is that you?”
“Did Glenda Croft call?”
“Constable Wheeler is taking her statement right now. We’re sending someone to bring them in.”
“There’s more.” I told him about finding the Hoard objects and gave him the collector’s address. Then I said, “Where’s Christine?”
“At Finchley Hall. Aren’t you there? She left with the guv—with Inspector Mallory—forty minutes ago. We’ve been trying to call you.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. “My mobile’s turned off. Has Christine been cleared?”
“Not exactly.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”
“Telling me what?” I gulped down a breath.
“The intake sergeant found a scratch on your daughter’s arm. We’re waiting for the results of the DNA under Ms. King’s fingernails. The chief super wanted to keep Christine for another twelve hours.”
“And?” This was not good.
“The guv released her anyway. Without permission. Then he took himself off the case.”
“Tom took himself off the case?” I swallowed hard.
“It’ll cost him his promotion. I thought you should know.”
* * *
“Christine’s been released.” I pulled onto the road. “I’ll drop you at the shop.”
“Marvelous!” Ivor clapped his hands.
My joy was tempered by the knowledge of what this might mean for Tom.
As I drove, Ivor thumbed through Swiggett’s book. We were pulling into Long Barston when he said, “My goodness. Listen to this: ‘A sad footnote to the tale of the Lost Finchley Hoard involves the family of Tobias Thurtle, the servant entrusted with hiding the Finchley treasure in 1549 and presumed to have perished in the fire that consumed Finchley Hall. His survivors, abandoned by the Finchleys, were left destitute. Still, they never lost hope of finding the Hoard and claiming the reward they believed due them. In 1818, before he died of the injuries inflicted by the spring-gun, Jim Thurtle told police Sir Oswyn had promised Tobias a blood-red ruby set in a gold ring, to be granted upon the return of the Hoard—a promise which, I regret to say, was never kept.’”
An icy hand gripped my heart. “Ivor—the Thurtles, the Gedges, and the Inghams are all one family.”
“You suggesting this whole thing—the thefts, the murders—is about Lady Susannah’s ring?”
“The beggar who killed Lady Susannah and took the ring—I’m willing to bet he was a Thurtle.”
“But why would Peter kill Tabitha? Wasn’t he in love with her? Wasn’t he the father of her child?”
“We don’t have the DNA results yet. Maybe Peter came to Finchley Hall to help his uncle steal what they considered rightfully theirs. And maybe Peter got Tabitha the job as curator of the exhibit for that express purpose.”
“If you’re right, Gedge and the young man will be long gone.”
Five minutes later, I dropped Ivor at his shop. “You call the police again. I’m going to find my daughter.” I checked my watch. Still nearly a half hour before I could call the doctor in Jackson Falls.
I turned the car into the long drive toward Finchley Hall. Something wasn’t making sense. Why was Christine still refusing to answer questions about Alex? Surely not to protect Peter Ingham. And where had she gotten that scratch on her arm?
I slid the car into a parking spot outside the Stables. Pulling out my cell phone, I switched it on. Four missed calls, all from Tom—and a text.
WHERE ARE YOU? CHRISTINE WILL BE BACK AT FH BY 2:00. DON’T LET HER OUT OF YOUR SIGHT. EXPLAIN LATER.
Don’t let her out of my sight? My stomach fell. It was almost three, and I had no idea where she was.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Don’t let her out of your sight.
Bursting into the Commons, I found Prue, Michael, and Tristan.
“Where’s Christine?” I pushed my damp hair off my forehead.
“She changed clothes and left,” Prue said.
“Why?”
“Something about a score to settle.”
“Tristan, what do you know about this?”
“Why ask me?” He shrunk into the sofa. “Your daughter wants nothing to do with me.”
“Prue, Michael—what kind of score? With whom?”
“We asked.” Michael shook his shaggy red head. “She wouldn’t say.”
Tossing my handbag on the counter, I slid my cell phone into my jeans pocket and shot out the door. Oh man—what if the score to settle involved Gedge and Peter? All I could think of was finding my daughter.
I raced, splashing through puddles on the gravel path, toward the Elizabethan Garden.
A fire burned in the fluted brazier. I found Peter and Gedge in the shed, sitting on the bags of manure.
“All right, where’s Christine?” I barked.
Two faces stared at me in bewilderment.
“She’s been released?” Peter said. “We haven’t seen her.”
“What do you know about the blood-red ruby and Sir Oswyn’s reward?”
Peter laughed. “You mean that old family legend?”
“That were a long time ago, missus,” Gedge said, chuckling. “I’d rather have a nice tied cottage and a pension than a bloody red stone.”
There was more here, but it would have to wait. “Who around the estate wears amber-tinted sunglasses?”
“You mean those wraparound, clear-vision things?” Peter asked.
“Who?” I said, more sharply than I’d intended.
Gedge frowned. “Mugg.”
* * *
I pushed through the door to Finchley Hall without bothering to ring the bell. No one met me. “Lady Barbara? Vivian? Francie?”
I shrugged off my rain-soaked jacket and tossed it on a chair. The drawing room and the library were deserted. I started to run.
I found Lady Barbara alone in her private sitting room. As I charged in, she sat bolt upright. “Kate, for heaven’s sake, you’re dripping wet.”
“Have you seen Christine?” I gulped air. “She got back here at two o’clock.”
“She’s been released? I haven’t seen her, but—oh, Kate, that’s good news, isn’t it?”
“I hope so. Look, I’m sorry. I have to go. Where’s Mugg?”
“What time is it?” She glanced at her slim gold watch. “I can’t see the numbers.”
“Three fifteen. Is he here?”
“Cook’s day off. He’s probably in the kitchen. “
“How do I get there from here?”
“Return to the main hall, turn right, descend the staircase. At the bottom, turn left and continue past the—”
“Never mind. I’ll find it.” I thought about the new maids with their trails of corn kernels. I sprinted toward the main entrance. Once outside—I’d forgotten my coat—I hung a left and dashed toward the back of the house and the Elizabethan Garden.
There was the bench and the frog-green door to the kitchen. Danger pricked the back of my neck. I opened the door—just a crack. A pot simmered on the old Aga. I smelled chicken and herbs. Christine was there, all right. She huddled between a rack of copper pots and the wide Victorian hearth. My knees went weak.
Her wrists were bound with silver duct tape. A strip of tape covered her mouth.
Mugg stood beside her. With a carving knife.
My legs almost buckled.
I pu
shed open the door. “What do you think you’re doing?” Stupid question.
Mugg drew in his breath with a sharp hiss. Moving more swiftly than I’d have thought possible, he rounded the pine table, seized my arm, and yanked me away from the door. Like he practiced this kind of thing every night before bed.
Holding the knife between his teeth, he wrenched my arms behind my back and held my wrists in a viselike grip. Still holding my wrists, he took a set of keys from his belt, locked the door, and shot the bolt.
“You’re not getting out of here,” he said.
“Neither are you, by the looks of it.” Three other doors led from the kitchen. One was for the pantry Francie had shown me. Another, I guessed, led to the hallway and the stairs to the upper floors. That one had been bolted. The third door, on the far side of the hearth, was cracked, about an inch. I felt a surge of hope. Even if it led to another dead end, like the pantry, if Christine could get there, she’d have solid wood between her and that knife, giving me time to—to what? I had no idea.
The terror in my daughter’s eyes sent a surge of adrenaline pulsing through my veins. My world contracted to a single, all-encompassing ball of rage. I could have gladly ripped his arms off.
Don’t be stupid. Use your brain. Was that my mother’s voice or mine? Whichever, it was right. I couldn’t overpower him. I probably couldn’t outmaneuver him. My only chance was to outthink him.
Using his free hand, Mugg snatched a white tea towel lying on the table and began to rip off a strip with his teeth.
Have you ever tried to have a conversation with your eyes alone? Neither had I, but you can do anything when you’re left with no alternatives.
Christine’s eyes moved from her legs to Mugg. Should I kick him?
I gave a tiny headshake and stared meaningfully at the carving knife. Are you out of your mind? He’s got a knife.
She blinked. Well, shoot. Her actual words were probably less polite, but I got the idea.
I looked at her, then shifted my eyes toward the third door. Way of escape. Not locked.
She gave me an almost imperceptible nod.
The problem was giving her time to move. My first thought was distraction. Hey, it had worked for the thieves.
“Who’s that?” I screamed dramatically and stared at the door behind Mugg.