A Legacy of Murder

by Connie Berry

  He couldn’t help himself. He spun around, dropping my wrists. Just long enough for me to race to the opposite side of the pine table.

  He moved left. I moved left.

  He moved right. So did I.

  “You can’t avoid me forever,” he said, stating the obvious. He was the one with the knife, after all. “Now I suppose you’re going to tell me the police are on their way and will be here any moment.”

  “I don’t think I will, as a matter of fact. I’ll let you guess. What I am going to tell you is how utterly despicable you are.”

  Mugg grabbed the roll of tape. Next he would tie me up, and then—terrifying images flicked through my brain, all involving that huge carving knife.

  “What kind of a monster are you?” I threw at him. “After all Lady Barbara has done for you—after the loyalty she’s shown you—you betray her by stealing her precious inheritance.” I shook with rage.

  He blanched. I’d gotten to him. “I didn’t steal from her. I stole for her.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Christine take a tiny step sideways toward the third door. Good girl.

  “Lady Barbara promised never to sell the Hoard. Someone had to.” I watched in amazement as his eyes welled. “I didn’t take a penny for myself, you stupid woman. All the money went into this house, including some of my own, if you must know. It’s never-ending.” He ran a ragged hand over his mouth. “Repairs, repointing, new plumbing, new electrics. The roof.”

  I stared at him, finally comprehending. “You were slowly converting her assets into cash so she could keep living here.”

  “What else could I do?” He looked at the strip of cloth in his hands with something like horror. “Everything I’ve done has been for her.” His voice caught.

  “Killing people isn’t love.”

  “I had no choice.” His nostrils flared.

  All the puzzle pieces were there now. The thefts, the murders. And the outlier—the tiny detail that put everything else in perspective. The outlier was loyalty—loyalty and love. Twisted and grotesque, certainly, but recognizable. “Catherine Kerr was the first, wasn’t she?” My voice sounded preternaturally calm, but my heart thumped against my rib cage so furiously I was sure he could hear it.

  Inch by inch, Christine was moving toward the third door.

  Keep him talking. Give her time. “Why did you have to get rid of Catherine?”

  “She was going to tell Lady Barbara’s husband about the missing items from the Hoard.”

  “So you killed her and let Lucien take the blame. You don’t think that hurt Lady Barbara?”

  “It was for the best.” His lips twisted horribly. “You didn’t know Lucien. He would have broken his mother’s heart in the end. At least this way she can think of him living happily in Venezuela. A harmless deception.” There was more to that story, but I couldn’t get off track.

  “Like passing off Francie as three different women?”

  He tsked. “Lady Barbara’s happiness is all that matters.”

  “More than the life of a beautiful young woman? Tabitha found out about the missing objects, too, didn’t she?”

  “That blasted book.” He clenched his jaw. “I didn’t even know the thing existed until she brought it to me and showed me the discrepancies.”

  “You took the book from Ivor Tweedy, too?” How did he not know?

  “Too trusting, that man.”

  “Why did Tabitha show you the book?”

  “She realized I was the only other person who knew the codes for the safe. She was giving me a chance to explain. I couldn’t, of course.” He began to pace in short spans, never moving far from Christine. “That one was the hardest. I had to steel myself.”

  “So you bludgeoned her with a garden spade and carried her body to the lake.”

  “She didn’t suffer.”

  I wasn’t sure of that. “You met her in the park the day of the tour. Didn’t you realize the tour group would arrive soon?”

  “She was the tour guide that day. How was I to know Alex would take over?”

  Christine moved closer to the door. I tried not to look at her.

  “You were still there when the little boy, Danny, went down to the lake. Would you have killed him, too?”

  “Of course not. I didn’t have to. Even if he told, no one would believe him.”

  “How did you know about Lady Susannah’s ring?”

  “Catherine Kerr discovered it. She intended to make the ring the centerpiece of the special exhibit.”

  “And you switched the ruby for a garnet.”

  “I took it to a jeweler in Cambridge. He found a garnet of similar size and shape and had it carved with a griffin. He made it fit the setting.”

  “How did you find the collector in Bury?”

  “The jeweler said he knew someone who might buy it, but I’d have to provide a record of ownership. Turned out the jeweler was also an expert in forging documents.”

  “Weren’t you worried the ring would be compared with the portrait?”

  “No one knew the ring was there until you came along. Not even Lady Barbara.” He narrowed his eyes. “That ruby saved Finchley Hall. What good was it doing locked up in a safe?”

  He had a point. “So you kept stealing objects and selling them.”

  “It wasn’t stealing,” he roared. “I told you—I had no choice. The objects were never missed. No one even knew they were gone until Miss King found that book.”

  “Now the ring is gone and”—the truth was dawning—“you knew it would be. You knew the thieves would be at the exhibit. That’s why you were so opposed.”

  He sighed miserably. “The jeweler in Cambridge had done work for an organized gang from the Continent. Big operation, lots of players. Most of the things I sold went to a collector in Bury, but a few went to the gang, to be sold abroad for a commission. That was my mistake. They got selfish. Decided to cut me out.”

  “But why would they take the ring? Didn’t they know the stone was a garnet?”

  His lips curled in a smile. “Never told them. Neither did the jeweler. That was our revenge.”

  “And Alex? She’s still alive, by the way. When she wakes up, she’ll tell the police about you.”

  “If she wakes up.”

  “Did Alex know about the ruby?”

  “No, but she’d seen me with the Danish couple—who aren’t Danish, by the way. They’re part of the gang. I was trying to talk them out of stealing the Finchley Cross.”

  “But they didn’t steal the cross. They stole the ring.”

  “They changed their minds. Probably the article in the newspaper.”

  “How did Alex figure it out?”

  “She’d seen us together about a month ago. I’d told her they were relatives, come to visit. But when they came back, pretending to be Danish, she recognized them and eventually put two and two together. I had no choice.”

  “But you didn’t finish the job.”

  “Heard someone coming, didn’t I?”

  “My daughter?” I stared at Christine. “Have you been protecting Mugg all this time?”

  “Mmmf,” she yelped, vigorously shaking her head.

  It was time to move things forward.

  “What have you got against Christine? She didn’t know about the Hoard objects.” That wasn’t completely true, but why tell him?

  Christine shook her head in frustration. “Umm muumfa umm mumm.”

  “She figured it out,” Mugg said, translating. “The person who told the police she was at the Folly had to have been there, too.”

  “Who told her it was you?” I was confused.

  Christine’s eyes screwed up. Umm muumf. Whatever that meant, I’d have to find out later. Assuming we had a later.

  Mugg inched toward me, the roll of tape in his hands. If I let him come closer, I might be able to slow him down when Christine bolted. If it didn’t work—

  “On
e more thing,” I said, holding up a finger. “Tell me about Carlos Esteva.”

  “I wasn’t sorry to kill him,” Mugg said flatly. “I did humanity a favor there.”

  “Why was he in England?”

  “Greedy, like the others. Lucien’s dead, by the way. Drugs. He was in Venezuela less than a month when he died of an overdose. He and Carlos were friends, if you can call a pusher and his victim friends. When Lucien died, Esteva wrote me with a proposition. He’d pretend to be Lucien Finchley-fforde in exchange for the cash Lady Barbara sent from time to time. He was in trouble with his family—he’d been skimming drug money—so he dropped out of sight and took Lucien’s identity. He wrote to Lady Barbara, pretending to be Lucien.”

  “She never suspected?”

  “Her vision was bad by that time. She had me read the letters.”

  “So you let her send this man money? I thought you cared about her.”

  “Getting the letters made her happy, didn’t it? She only sent twenty pounds or so every few weeks. Enough to keep Carlos in whiskey.”

  “So why did he come to England?”

  “Blackmail. He wanted money to keep the secret—thousands. When I refused to pay, he threatened to tell Lady Barbara.”

  “So you took the whiskey from the pantry and laced it with paraquat.”

  “I told Esteva the whiskey was a down payment, that I’d have to sell something. I had no choice.”

  No choice. It was the fourth time he’d said it, and it was making me mad. “You did have a choice. You still do. End this now because the police will figure it out, and—

  Christine kicked open the third door and vaulted up the steps two at a time.

  Oh man. That wasn’t a way out—just up. To the roof.

  Dropping the knife, Mugg flew after her, pausing long enough to smile.

  Crap, crap, crap. The roof had been his plan all along. This was literally my worst nightmare.

  I could see the article in the newspaper: SUSPECT IN DEATH OF INTERN THROWS HERSELF OFF FINCHLEY HALL ROOF.

  I rushed up the stairs after him. Acrophobia or not, if someone was going to save my daughter, it would have to be me.

  Mugg leapt up the stairs like a mountain goat. With Christine’s hands bound, she’d either lose her balance or he’d catch her.

  Unless I caught him first.

  We hit the first landing and rounded the banister. The second flight was narrower and steeper than the first. like climbing a ladder. Or those zigzag steps at the bell tower.

  The world tilted. Focus on Mugg.

  Halfway up the fourth flight, the ceiling was so low we had to stoop.

  I grabbed for Mugg’s leg and missed. I reached again. This time I caught the hem of his trousers. He kicked back hard, sending me bouncing down on my shins.

  That hurt. A lot. But I’d slowed him enough to give Christine a tiny lead.

  She opened a wooden hatch to the roof, hiked herself up on one knee, and pushed her upper body through. Landing on her shoulder, she tried to roll away, but Mugg caught her trailing leg and began to pull her back.

  I grabbed his belt and yanked with all my strength. It almost sent us both tumbling down the staircase, but it did the trick.

  Christine’s leg disappeared through the hatch.

  Mugg broke free and clambered after her.

  I poked my head out. The sky was darkening. Rain drizzled. What I could see of the gray lead roof looked slick. Somehow, Christine had made it to a ladder bolted to one of the roof gables. Mugg wasn’t far behind.

  I stood rooted to the spot. Oh man. I was going to have to go out there. No railing, no parapet. Just a slippery lead surface ending in copper gutters and a sixty-foot drop.

  For a moment I thought I might throw up. Then I thought about the courage of an eight-year-old boy. Pushing my dripping hair off my forehead, I forced myself on. Once through the hatch, I crouched close to the structure, my heart beating like a hammer. Breathe.

  Christine was halfway up the ladder. She moved awkwardly, her hands bound in front of her, leaning her shoulders against the side rails for balance as she climbed. She couldn’t have had a clue where she was going.

  As Mugg reached for the bottom rung, his leather shoes slipped on the wet lead. Yay! Then I thought of my own shoes. They were leather, too.

  I shouldn’t have looked at the roof’s edge. The world began to spin. With a full-blown panic attack threatening, I crawled forward on my stomach.

  Something near my hip clunked against the metal roof. My cell phone.

  I’d forgotten all about it. Should I call Tom? Emergency services?

  I was no match for Mugg. Even if rescuers arrived in time—and I had no reason to hope they would—Mugg would carry out his plan. Christine would go over the edge, the distraught attacker. I’d follow, the frantic mother who lost her life attempting to save her child. We were nothing to Mugg.

  He was halfway up the ladder now. Christine, at the top, was kicking at him wildly.

  There was only one person on earth who could talk him out of this.

  Lady Barbara.

  Lying flat against the roof, I pulled out my phone, scrolled back through my calls, and pushed redial.

  “Kate, is that you?” She sounded so frail. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m on the roof,” I whispered. “Got a bit of a crisis here. Could you come?”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Lady Barbara’s head poked through the hatch. “What’s happening?” Without waiting for an answer, she climbed neatly onto the roof. Whatever her health issues, Lady Barbara was agile.

  Mugg and Christine had disappeared over the gable. We could hear them struggling.

  Someone swore. Oof. Something heavy bumped over the ridged lead surface. I prayed it wasn’t my daughter.

  “Who is it? Tell me at once,” Lady Barbara demanded.

  “Mugg and Christine,” I said lamely. “We need to get them down before someone falls.” I choked out a hysterical laugh. How else was this going to end with an acrophobic leading a blind woman on a slippery roof?

  “Let’s go.” Lady Barbara started to move.

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” I hissed.

  “Don’t be silly.” She was shivering. “I know this roof like the back of my hand.”

  “Wait.” I reached out for her. Looking back was a mistake. A wave of vertigo sent the world spinning again. In spite of the cold, I broke out in a clammy sweat.

  “Use the mop rolls—the ridges—to get purchase,” Lady Barbara said. “Lean into the roof or you’ll lose your balance. Once we make it over the gable, there’s a flat spot.”

  We inched forward.

  My cell phone rang. Eek! The phone flew out of my hand, somersaulted in the air, scuttered down the lead roof, and sailed off into the blackness. Still ringing.

  We reached the ladder. “You go first,” I said, peering at the small figure of Lady Barbara. If she fainted now, I’d try to catch her, and we’d probably both go over the edge.

  I needn’t have worried.

  Hoisting herself up, she shouted in a commanding voice, “Mugg. Whatever are you doing?” This wasn’t the frail Lady Barbara I’d heard on the phone a few minutes ago. This Lady Barbara could have led the troops to victory at Waterloo in her ball gown.

  She climbed the ladder, hand over hand. I followed, swallowing hard and blinking against the spots swimming in my peripheral vision. Reaching the top, Lady Barbara pivoted, making room for me. We peered over the gable.

  Christine had found the level place. She rested on her haunches, sucking oxygen through her nose. Mugg perched on the downside ladder.

  No one spoke, so I did. “I’m sorry to tell you this, Lady Barbara, but Mr. Mugg is not the person you think he is. Not only is he responsible for a series of thefts from the Hoard, he’s the one who killed Catherine Kerr, Tabitha King, Carlos Esteva. He’s the one who attacked Alex Devereux.”

  Good job breaking it gently.

&n
bsp; Mugg’s chest heaved. His mouth opened. “I did it for you, madam. Everything for you.”

  I held my breath.

  Then Lady Barbara said the last thing I expected.

  “I feel as if I might faint. Mugg, would you help me down from here before I do?”

  He swallowed hard. “Of course, madam.”

  “Now, Mugg?”

  “Certainly, madam.”

  I swung my legs over the gable and half-slid down to the flat place where Christine was crouched. I ripped the tape from her mouth.

  “Ow,” she said, rubbing the skin above her lip.

  I held her, but not for long. She pulled away. “Get this tape off my hands.”

  “I’ll need a knife.” Not the cleverest statement under the circumstances.

  A siren blared in the dusky light. Blue lights raced down the long drive. A small armada of cars and vans skidded to a halt in the gravel courtyard.

  Voices called to us from the narrow staircase.

  “Albert Mugg,” came a welcome voice. “I’m arresting you for the murder of—”

  Tom vaulted onto the roof. “Kate, Christine, you’re safe.”

  That’s when I lost it.

  * * *

  Lady Barbara, Christine, and I sat, wrapped from head to toe in blankets, on the twin Knole sofas in the private drawing room. I held my mud-streaked phone, which by some miracle had fallen in a planting bed and was still working.

  Everyone was there. Peter sat next to Lady Barbara on the sofa. Prue and Michael held hands in the window seat. Tristan slouched in a corner. Francie Jewell was pouring steaming mugs of hot, sweet tea. Even Gedge was there, inside the house for perhaps the first time in his life and refusing to sit on the grounds he might pong a bit. Someone had built a fire in the hearth. Probably Vivian.

  Tom and Sergeant Cliffe had stopped in before leaving for Bury.

  “I never guessed it was Mugg,” Lady Barbara said weakly. Now that we were off the roof and Mugg was in custody, she was trembling. People say courage is the ability to do the right thing while you’re scared out of your wits. By that definition, Lady Barbara could be counted among England’s heroes.

  Fidelis, fastu, fortitudo.

  Francie handed Lady Barbara a mug of tea.