by Connie Berry
“Thank you, Francie. Or should I call you Briggs?”
“You knew all along?” I asked.
“I’m not a complete fool.” Lady Barbara lifted her cup.
Tom pulled up a chair. “Time for the truth,” he told Christine. “We know you saw Mugg near the Folly the night Alex was attacked. What we don’t know is why you refused to say so.”
Her chin went up.
“Christine, for heaven’s sake.” I wanted to shake her. “What reason could you possibly have now for not telling?”
“Because she promised.” The reedy voice of Tristan Sorel came from the corner of the room. “So I shall.”
Everyone stared at him.
“The night before the Hoard exhibit, Alex told me we were finished. Once I was well and truly hooked, she’d lost interest. I was angry and hurt.” His mouth twisted. “I assumed she had someone else on the line. I checked her phone messages and found the texts, demanding that Christine meet her in the Folly at six forty-five. I went early, intending to eavesdrop. Instead—” He stopped, stricken. “Instead I found Alex’s body.”
“That’s when I arrived,” Christine said. “Seeing him with a bloody garden spade in his hand, his clothes soaked with blood, I assumed he’d murdered Alex. I ran.”
“I caught her—told her what happened and pleaded with her not to tell anyone I was there. All the evidence was against me.”
“We should have called for help,” Christine said miserably. “We thought Alex was dead. We really did.”
“Will she be all right?” Tristan asked.
“She has a nasty concussion,” Tom said. “With rest and time, she may recover her memory of the attack. We’re counting on it.” He smiled slightly. “Finish the story, Christine.”
“We agreed to arrive at the party separately. We both went to shower and change. I hung out near the Stables until I’d calmed down a bit. The thing is, I’d seen Mugg on the way to the Folly earlier. I didn’t think about it until the police told me a witness had seen me. At the police station, I learned it was Mugg.”
“So you thought it would be a smart move to accuse him of murder?” I said, flabbergasted.
“It never occurred to me he was the killer.” Christine pulled the blanket closer around her neck. “I was going to ream him out for being a snitch.”
“Oh, Christine.” That’s all I had time for, because my cell phone rang.
Memorial Hospital. “Oh, dear Lord—my mother.” Dragging the blanket with me, I dashed into the hall.
“Hello, Kate?” came the oh-so-familiar voice.
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Mom, is it really you?”
“Of course it’s me.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I’m in the hospital. I’m supposed to be sleeping.”
“Why aren’t you?”
“I’ve gotten quite a lot of sleep since yesterday. Seventeen hours, as a matter of fact. One minute I was in the kitchen, deciding if I should take two more Motrin. Next thing I knew I woke up here almost a day later.”
“Are you okay?”
“I seem to be. Everything’s working. They did some tests this morning. I’m on a blood thinner. They say I had a ministroke, but I don’t seem to have any aftereffects.”
My mother, the eternal optimist. Look on the bright side. Count your blessings. I was counting them, too, but weren’t TIAs sometimes a precursor for another, more devastating stroke?
“Oh, Mom.” My voice cracked.
“What is it, Kate?”
My mother’s ability to read between the lines is the stuff of legends. And, like my daughter, I’m a terrible liar. So I told her—the expurgated version. Plenty of time later to fill in the blanks.
When I stopped, she said, “Well, that settles it. You must stay in England. Christine needs you, and it sounds like you and Tom have some sorting out to do. You’ll have to change your flight.”
“But what if you need surgery or something?”
“I’m not having surgery. I’m being released.”
“All the more reason why I should be there to take care of you.”
“I’m in excellent hands. Charlotte will make sure the shop is covered. She’s taken Fiona to her house. The twins are delighted. You’re needed there.”
“Mom. Come on—no way I’d let you spend Christmas Eve and Christmas by yourself. Not on your life.”
“As a matter of fact—” For the first time I could remember, my mother sounded evasive. “My friend from Oak Hills insists on driving down to get me. He’s asked me to spend Christmas with his son and family this year. I think I may take him up on it.”
“Dr. Lund?”
“James, yes. And we will celebrate Christmas together, Kate. Even if it’s in January.”
I tried protesting, but my mother wouldn’t listen. “No, darling. You’re needed in England.”
She was right.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Tuesday, December 22nd
The day I’d planned to be on an airplane, flying home to spend Christmas Eve with my mother, I was with Tom, sitting on a bench outside a hospital room in Bury St. Edmunds. Alex Devereux was well enough to have an occasional visitor.
“Tell me about that text,” I said. “The one you sent, telling me not to let Christine out of my sight.”
Tom stretched out his long legs. “We’d just gotten the lab results. The DNA under Tabitha’s fingernails was Mugg’s. We knew he was the killer.”
“Who was the father of Tabitha’s baby?”
“Peter. As we thought.”
The door to Alex’s room opened, and a middle-aged man wearing jeans, a tweed sport coat, and an open-collared striped shirt came out. He had a head of thick silver hair and a slightly tanned face.
“Frightfully kind of you to come,” he said in a clipped, cut-glass accent. “I’m Paul Devereux, Alex’s father.”
When we’d introduced ourselves, he said, “I’m off to the canteen for a spot of breakfast. Don’t stay long, will you? She needs her rest.”
Tom rapped softly on the door.
Alex lay propped on a pillow, her hands limp on the white cotton spread. A plump gauze bandage covered the right side of her head, which looked like it had been shaved. Monitors blinked and beeped.
“Hello, Alex,” I said. “We heard you were awake. We wanted to see for ourselves that you were all right.”
“The headache’s the worst,” she said weakly. “And the loss of memory. The doctors say it will return. I’m not sure I want to remember.”
“You should know that Mugg has pled guilty to your attack,” Tom said. “There’s more, but we won’t go into that right now.”
“Lady Barbara sends her love—and all the interns,” I said.
“Kind of them.” Her tone bore no trace of sarcasm.
“We met your father just now,” Tom said. “We understand your mother is on her way.”
“Mummy’s had to cut short her holiday in the south of France. Too bad of me, isn’t it?” She raised a hand to brush back her hair but stopped when she felt the bandage.
“Your parents aren’t together?”
“Never were. Daddy makes sure she has enough money to keep her from being a nuisance. I don’t care if she comes or not.” Her attempt to appear nonchalant was less than convincing.
I looked at that beautiful, pale face. “Lady Barbara says your job is waiting for you the minute you feel able to return.”
Her eyes glistened. “Tell her I’m grateful.”
“Of course.” I laid my hand on hers. “I think we should go so you can rest.”
“One more thing.” She shifted her position and winced. “Tell Christine I’m sorry.”
* * *
After dropping Tom at police headquarters in Bury, I caught the road south to Long Barston. I hoped Alex would decide to stay on at Finchley Hall. With Mugg out of the picture, Lady Barbara needed her.
I thought of the other interns. Would they stay on and finish ou
t their internships? What would Christine do?
Late the previous night I’d spoken to my mother again. She’d sounded stronger. Charlotte was at the house packing a suitcase for her. My mother was waiting at the hospital for Dr. Lund to pick her up in his big silver Mercedes. They planned to stay the night at my house in Jackson Falls and leave in the morning for one of the Chicago suburbs, where his son, also a physician, lived with his wife and three daughters. I’d asked if the three-hour car trip would be too much for her. She’d laughed. “He’s a doctor, Kate.”
Signs for Finchley Hall and St. Æthelric’s told me I was nearing the village.
Christine had insisted on completing the inventory of the documents in the 1934 file before the holidays, so I’d invited Lady Barbara and Vivian Bunn to meet me for lunch at the Three Magpies. I glanced at my watch. First I’d stop at the Cabinet of Curiosities.
The bell jangled as I entered. Ivor stood in his usual position behind the counter.
“I hear I missed all the fun,” he said with a pointed look.
“You’re not going to tell me I shouldn’t have done it, are you?”
“Certainly not.” He huffed on a glossy cobalt-blue bottle and polished it with a felt cloth.
“Mugg is the one who stole your copy of Swiggett’s book. Why didn’t you tell me he was in the shop?”
“You asked about strangers. Mugg wasn’t a stranger. He said he was looking for a Christmas gift for Lady Barbara.” Ivor set the blue glass bottle on the counter.
“Is that what I think it is?”
“Take a look.”
The glass was hand-blown, translucent, few air bubbles. The body was pear-shaped with a flattened bottom and a cylindrical neck. “It’s an unguentarium,” I said, “a bottle for the perfumed oils used in bathing.”
“Roman, second century. I’m mailing it to a chap in Shrewsbury today. Lots of cotton wool and bubble wrap.” He set the vase on the counter. “How is your mother?”
“Fine—at least that’s what she tells me. She’s spending Christmas with a friend near Chicago. And I’m staying in England until after the holidays.”
“Really?” He turned pink. “In that case, perhaps … well, perhaps you and your young man would join me on Christmas for a celebratory toast. Something I’ve been saving for a special occasion.”
Knowing Ivor, this could be anything from a bottle of Veuve Clicquot to a cask of nineteenth-century French cognac.
“The carolers from St. Æthelric’s stroll round the village between four and six PM. We could pull Christmas crackers.” He looked as hopeful as a little boy, anticipating a bicycle-shaped package under the tree on Christmas morning.
“There’s nothing I’d like better. I’m sure I can answer for Tom—unless he’s called out. And I want you to meet my daughter.”
“Yes, yes, a real celebration. Bring Christine along. Bring them all.” He clapped his hands. “This will be the merriest Christmas since the Amazon rain forest when the fireworks went awry and burnt down the local wine bar.”
I laughed. “That’s a story I must hear, but not today. I’m lunching with Lady Barbara and Vivian Bunn at the Three Magpies. I’ll invite them, too, if it’s all right.”
“The more, the merrier.” He stopped and raised his hands in surprise. “Dear me, I nearly forgot. Do you remember F. Redfern, hmm?”
“The name on the slip of paper in that tortoiseshell snuffbox. You were trying to find a connection with the poet Alexander Pope.”
He opened the drawer behind the counter and removed the snuffbox he’d shown me on the day we met. “Now where is that paper?” He shuffled through a stack of documents, sending them flying. “Aha.” He waved a paper at me. “‘The Last Will and Testament of Alexander Pope.’ A photocopy, of course. The original’s in the Bodleian.” He stabbed at a paragraph. “Pope left the bulk of his estate to his friend, Martha Blount. Look.” He squinted at the miniscule writing. “‘I give and devise to Mrs. Martha Blount, younger Daughter of—’”
“What does this have to do with F. Redfern?”
“Excellent question. Martha Blount left a will, too. It’s here—on the opposite side. Martha Blount bequeathed the sum of one hundred pounds to her faithful cook and companion. Read it for yourself.”
He had bracketed a paragraph with red pencil: —TO MRS. FANNY REDFERN, WHOSE DEEP ADMIRATION FOR THE WORKS OF ALEXANDER POPE RIVALS MY OWN.
“Well done, Ivor.” I tucked the episode away to impress my mother. I gazed around the shop and the amazing objects he’d bought over a lifetime. “You’ve got a gold mine here.”
A shadow crossed his face. He sighed deeply.
“Do you regret parting with the Egyptian glass head? You could have sold it for a lot more than sixteen thousand and a book.”
He huffed. “Don’t be silly. I bought the thing for the equivalent of thirty pounds. Not a bad return on investment, even after forty years, hmm?”
“Then what’s wrong?”
“I got a letter from the National Health. I’m scheduled for bilateral hip surgery at the end of April. Both hips at the same time.”
“Good news, right?”
“They say I’m a good candidate.” He pulled at his ear. “But the rehabilitation will take longer than I expected—a week in hospital, then a residential clinic for some weeks.”
“That doesn’t sound too bad.”
“No.” He frowned. “Best place for me. Only what shall I do about the shop?”
“Close it down until you recover?”
“I can’t afford that—no, it’s true. My cash is tied up in inventory. Meanwhile I have taxes to pay, utilities, interest on a loan, not to speak of normal living expenses. Sales like the cobalt vase don’t come along every day. I sell very little to the walk-in trade. Most of my sales are online. That means keeping abreast of the market, contacting potential buyers, listing items for sale in online auctions.”
“Couldn’t you do that from the rehabilitation center?”
“After a few weeks, perhaps. But that’s only part of the work. Once an object is sold, I must arrange for payment, check credit, decide how best to ship the object. Organize delivery. Be prepared to accept returns—that happens more than you’d think. And then, if the place looks deserted, there’s the danger of theft. Someone must be here at the shop.”
“Could you get someone to fill in?”
His eyebrows flew up as if I’d just uttered an oracle. “It would have to be someone I trusted, obviously.” His blue eyes took on that childlike innocence I’d come to recognize as a sign of scheming and deception. “Someone with the knowledge to pull it off. Who could possibly step in at this late date, hmm?”
I’d heard that one before.
* * *
I found a parking space on a side street between the Finchley Arms and the Three Magpies. The dueling signboards were up. The Three Magpies was advertising an elegant champagne brunch on Christmas and New Year’s Day. Not to be outdone, the Arms had countered with a few twigs of holly in chalk and the words UPHOLDING TRADITION: CHEAP ALCOHOL, LOW STANDARDS, AND POOR DECISIONS.
The Three Magpies felt lively, with customers in both the bar and dining room. Lady Barbara and Vivian sat at a table in front of the fireplace. Would Lady Barbara’s patronage overcome the villagers’ resistance to the Three Magpies, I wondered, or would her defection trigger all-out war?
Jayne Collier hovered around Lady Barbara like she was the Queen. “Care for tea? Glass of wine, perhaps? Champagne?” She’d already set down the sourdough with lemon and coriander olives.
“This is quite pleasant,” Lady Barbara said when she saw me. “I’ve never been in a public house before.” Having recovered from the previous day’s ordeal with near-miraculous rapidity, Lady Barbara was reminding me more and more of my mother. She spread her napkin on her lap and speared one of the small purplish-brown olives. “To be fair, I should probably put in an appearance at the Arms as well. What do you think?”
I
smiled and kept my mouth shut. I’d give a lot to see that.
After we ordered—we all chose the lunch special, smoked salmon with warm goat cheese on a caramelized onion tart—Vivian surprised me by nudging Lady Barbara. “Tell the girl, Barb. No time like the present.”
“Yes, of course.” Lady Barbara wiped a slick of olive oil from her chin. “I’ve made a decision, Kate—thanks to you.” She took a sip of mineral water. “I think I’ve known for a long time that Lucien is gone. I just didn’t want to face it.”
“How did you know?”
“The letters. Oh, I put the speech patterns down to the natural changes that occur when one lives in a foreign culture. But I knew. I won’t be receiving any more letters. Lucien will not be returning to England one day. The Finchleys end here—with me.”
Vivian rolled her hand. “Get to the point, dear.”
“The point is, I knew we needed cash. I didn’t know just how desperate my financial condition really is.” Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling a sob. “What wicked things Mugg did to conceal the truth from me.”
It hurt me to look at her face.
“While Cedru was alive, he took care of all that. When he died, Mugg took over the finances. I should have been more vigilant.”
“Tell her what you’ve decided to do,” Vivian said.
“It’s a case of what I’ve already done. This morning I directed my solicitor to draw up an agreement, transferring ownership of Finchley Hall to the National Trust.”
Her words were clipped, decisive, but what was she feeling? I searched that pale, lined face and those dim eyes. Finchley Hall had been her life, a legacy entrusted to her by all those smug faces rendered in oils. She’d made a promise, a promise she could no longer keep.
A great loss.
“Don’t look so sad,” she said, reaching out to touch my cheek. “I’m not losing Finchley Hall. I’m giving it to the nation. I’ll remain in my private quarters—a few familiar rooms is all I need—until I’m no longer able to live on my own. Francie has agreed to stay on, bless her.” She laughed. “Three for the price of one, eh? Peter will finish the garden. And I’ll have Vivian to keep me company. I don’t know what I’d do without her.”