A Dream of Death

by Connie Berry

  “Right.” He handed me the glass. “Coppers in plain clothes.”

  “I’m not a geography expert, but isn’t Suffolk north of London?”

  “Right again. East of Cambridge, south of Norfolk. Along the coast, if that helps. I work out of Bury St. Edmunds, about fifty miles inland.”

  “Is that where you live as well?” I took a sip of the Riesling. Crisp, citrusy.

  “I live in Saxby St. Clare, a village thirty miles south of Bury.” He poured himself a glass of the Cab. “We have a post office, a petrol station, a Tesco, and three pubs—all the necessities.”

  “As lively as the Isle of Glenroth after tourist season then.” I cringed. “Apart from the murder.”

  “Let’s not talk about murder,” he said, making things worse. “How do you like your cottage?”

  “Lovely. They all are. Elenor spent a lot of money on renovation.”

  “I’m in Tartan. First one east of the main house. Two bedrooms, two baths. I’m rattling around there on my own.”

  I was about to ask him if he’d come on holiday when the library door swung open and Sofia entered with a tray stand. If Sofia was the person striding away from the house earlier, she’d made it back in no time flat.

  “Sit, please.” Sofia set up the stand near the hearth and disappeared.

  Tom pulled out my chair. I sat, feeling as awkward as a middle-schooler at her first boy-girl dance. “This wasn’t my idea, by the way.”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners. “Too bad. I was hoping it was.”

  I pictured my mother, doing one of her I-told-you-so looks.

  Sofia returned with bowls of fresh green salad and a basket of warm rolls. After filling our water glasses, she left again, shutting the door behind her. The feeling of awkwardness returned. What would we find to talk about for the next hour or so?

  Quite a lot, as it turned out. Like me, Tom was single. His wife, Sarah, had died of ovarian cancer five years earlier when their daughter, Olivia, was thirteen.

  “Eric was in college and Christine in high school when Bill died,” I said. “At least he was there when they were growing up. How did you manage?”

  “My mother moved in after Sarah died. For Olivia’s sake. My job doesn’t run to regular hours.”

  “Your father?”

  “Dead.”

  “Brothers and sisters?”

  “None. What about you?”

  “My father died when I was seventeen. My mother lives in what’s called an active retirement community in Wisconsin. She’s staying at my house in Ohio at the moment, keeping my antique shop open.”

  “Siblings?”

  “I had a brother.” I watched a log collapse in a shower of embers. “He was a Down’s child.”

  “He died?”

  “When I was five. He was born with a serious heart defect. Lived eleven years. Longer than expected, I’m told.”

  Tom handed me the basket of rolls. “Tell me about your children.”

  “Well, Eric’s getting a master’s degree in nuclear physics. This quarter he’s doing research near Turin in Italy—something to do with spent fuel rods and deep bore holes.” I put up a hand. “Don’t ask. That’s all I know. Christine is studying medieval history. More my field. She’s in her second year at Magdalen College, Oxford.”

  Tom looked surprised. “She’s at Magdalen? I was at Trinity. We don’t get many American undergraduates at Oxford.”

  “My husband was an undergraduate there.”

  “Which is why you know how to pronounce the name.”

  Magdalen College, I’d quickly learned, is pronounced maudlin. Something to do with the pronunciation of vowels in the Middle Ages. “Yes. I think the locals were disappointed. They enjoy pretending not to understand the American tourists.”

  Tom laughed. “Unforgivable snobs.”

  “We took the kids to England after Christine’s sophomore year in high school.” I fished in my handbag for a photo. “Magdalen was having an Open Day, so we went—just for fun—and Christine fell in love with the school. She loved her father very much.”

  I handed him the photograph I’d received in September. “My daughter.” I pointed to a young woman wearing what looked like mummy wrapping over low-slung, shredded jeans. “That’s Tristan, her boyfriend. I’m trying not to worry.”

  The couple stood, arm in arm, on the banks of the Cherwell, Oxford’s iconic river. Christine looked deliriously happy. It was impossible to tell how Tristan felt. He was tall and brooding with dark hair that fell heavily across his eyes. He wore tight jeans and a shrunken military jacket with a striped scarf wound tightly around his neck.

  “Lovely girl, Kate. She has your coloring. If Christine is reading medieval history, she should visit Suffolk. There’s a wonderful fourteenth-century church in Thornham Parva and an early guildhall in Lavenham.”

  He pulled out his phone and showed me a picture of Olivia, taken recently, he said, in East Africa. “She’s working in an orphanage. Taking her gap year before starting university.”

  “She’s beautiful,” I said, and meant it. Unlike her father, Olivia was fair with a pale oval face, enormous eyes, and a full mouth. She held one little fellow, naked, skeleton thin, with the distended belly of the chronically malnourished. Several other children clung to her long skirt and gazed into the camera with huge, black-velvet eyes.

  Tom folded back the linen on the bread basket. “Olivia sat for her A levels last spring. She did well enough to get a place at Cambridge, but I worry about her.” He chose a roll and reached for the butter. “She tends to be too serious.”

  Hmm. One thing I didn’t have to worry about with Christine.

  Tom poured us each a second glass of wine, and by the time Sofia reappeared with the main course, I was feeling distinctly mellow. Nancy had prepared sliced filet of beef on a bed of wild mushroom risotto with green-sprigged baby carrots and small, buttery Brussels sprouts tucked artistically on one side. I fantasized about hiring her to cook for me in Ohio. And her husband, Frank, could whip my yard into shape. Perfect.

  The logs settled with a pop, sending sparks flying upward. I’m enjoying this, I admitted, reminding myself that my goal hadn’t been to enjoy myself but to find out about Tom Mallory. Was his presence at the hotel when a murder occurred a coincidence? Odd that he’d spend a whole week alone on a small island. Maybe he was antisocial, a charming hermit.

  I watched him take a sip of wine. “What brought you to Glenroth? Had you met Elenor somewhere?”

  “I came for a homeland security conference in Edinburgh. Olivia’s in Africa, my mother’s visiting family in Devon, so I decided to take a holiday. I ran into Rob Devlin at the conference. He’s the one who suggested this place, the hotel.”

  One mystery solved. Tom and DI Devlin had met before.

  Tom swirled the wine in his glass. In the firelight, it looked like melted rubies.

  “You’re not a suspect, then,” I said, trying to be clever.

  “Everyone is a suspect, Kate. I have an alibi. Sofia spent the night in my cottage.”

  “She did?” I managed to maintain my composure, but really. Tom and Sofia?

  “It’s not what it sounds like.” He glanced at the library door. “She came to my cottage last night, late, but not to see me. I’d placed my lunch tray on the bench outside the door as instructed. She’d forgotten to collect it earlier. Apparently Agnes is a stickler about lapses like that. Sofia intended to take the tray away quietly, but a glass fell and shattered. I heard the crash and went to see what happened. She’d cut her finger pretty badly, so I insisted she come in to rinse it off and apply a plaster. I could see she was shaken, so I made her sit on the sofa and gave her a glass of wine while I cleaned up the mess outside. When I came back, I found her sleeping, so I covered her with an extra blanket and went to bed. When I woke this morning, she was gone. Told me later she left at five with a headache and a stiff back.”

  “Why was she upset—the sight of blood or
the sale of the hotel?”

  Tom took a forkful of risotto. “The prospect of having to find a new job, I think.”

  I took this as my cue to turn the conversation to Elenor’s death. “How is it that someone you know was assigned to investigate the murder? Coincidence?”

  “Not exactly. I saw lights early this morning and went out to see what had happened. Habit, I suppose. A constable from Mallaig arrived first, followed by a crime scene manager from Skye and someone from CID in Fort William. When I heard about Elenor’s death—clearly murder—I called Rob Devlin. He’s part of Scotland’s Major Investigations Team. Basically they pack a bag with a few days’ worth of clothes and head to wherever they’re needed. He’d just wrapped up a case in Inverness, so he was close.”

  “I saw you talking to him earlier. Does he have news?”

  “Early days yet, Kate. They’re taking statements.”

  “Are they focusing on anyone?”

  “Like who?” He looked at me speculatively.

  “No one in particular.” I flushed and popped a baby carrot in my mouth. Oh, I’m slick.

  “He told me about your intruder. And your theory—the similarity to the death of Flora Arnott.”

  “Did he also tell you I’m on leave from the asylum?”

  Tom smiled. “No, he didn’t. And I assure you, they will follow every line of inquiry. Elenor made enemies. The police will begin there and expand as they learn more.”

  Apparently the ban on sharing information didn’t apply to fellow policemen. “I’m surprised to hear you speak so openly about the murder. Devlin threatened to have me drawn and quartered if I breathed a word to anyone.”

  “I’m not speaking openly, Kate. I’m speaking to you.”

  “But how do you know these things?”

  “I’m helping with the investigation.”

  Had I heard him right? I’d watched my share of British police procedurals. “As in ‘helping the police with their inquiries’? I thought you said you weren’t a suspect.”

  He looked amused. “As in helping Police Scotland with the investigation, Kate. They’re shorthanded. I called my guv. He gave his permission.”

  “Your guv?”

  “My boss, Chief Superintendent Rollins. Devlin asked me to read the evidence reports and the interviews they’ve taken so far to see if I could find discrepancies. Or anything I could add. My impressions of the staff, what I’d seen and heard. He also asked me to keep you informed—to be a liaison—which is what I’m doing right now.”

  Really? More likely, Devlin had asked him to keep an eye on me. Fine with me. Information can go both ways. “They should be looking into Elenor’s state of mind these past weeks. She was obsessed with security. She knew she was in danger, and I think it had something to do with Dr. Guthrie’s book.”

  “Devlin told me about the threat letters,” Tom said, “and I agree with you. They will follow every lead, but investigation takes time.”

  Police-speak for Leave this to us, miss.

  “I know investigation takes time, but Devlin needs to know that people around here aren’t telling the truth—at least not the whole truth.” I wanted to tell him about Agnes and the purple gloves, but the words refused to form. “Do you know if lights were still on in Elenor’s flat when the police arrived this morning? That could help pinpoint when she left the house.”

  Tom put down his knife and fork. “Look, I know you’re trying to help, Kate, and I understand your frustration. But you must be patient. Give Devlin time to do his work. You mustn’t get involved.”

  I started to protest when the library door opened and Sofia pushed a rolling cart through the jamb. The cart held a French press filled with coffee, two cups, and two ramekins of something that looked like soufflé.

  “Cranachan,” Sofia said. “Famous Scottish dessert. Whiskey, honey, oatmeal, raspberries.” Her eyes were fixed on Tom.

  I couldn’t blame her for that. But Tom was looking at Sofia, too, and some message passed between them. Had her night on his couch really been as innocent as he claimed? Why did that irritate me?

  I waited until Sofia was gone. “Look. Elenor was my sister-in-law. She asked for my help, and she was murdered. Can you blame me for wondering why?”

  “Of course I don’t blame you, but that doesn’t mean you can involve yourself in the investigation. It’s not safe. What if the killer sees you as a threat? You mustn’t interfere. Leave it to the police. They’ll decide who’s telling the truth and who isn’t. They don’t need your help.”

  I glared at him. He glared at me. Spoons tinked against china.

  What business was it of his to tell me what to do? The police did need help. They were just too pigheaded to admit it. I folded my napkin and stood. “You know, I can’t eat another bite. I’ll say good night.”

  Tom got to his feet. “Let me see you to your cottage.”

  “No, thank you. I’m absolutely fine.”

  I left him standing there, a napkin in his hand and a puzzled look on his face.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I shut the cottage door behind me and kicked off my heels. Tom Mallory was even worse than DI Devlin.

  My cell phone was now fully charged. I unplugged it and turned it on. The screen lit up with a series of pings. I’d had a text from Christine (miracle of miracles) and five missed calls, four from a number I recognized, a client with more taste than money and a nasty habit of taking oil paintings on approval and returning them the morning after a big dinner party.

  She could wait.

  I opened the text from Christine: TRIS + I HAVE NEWS, HOPE U R NOT UPSET.

  Upset? My heart lurched. Was she talking about a wedding? Dear Lord, not a baby.

  Fear turned to guilt. News wasn’t necessarily a prelude to disaster. I wanted to text back WHAT NEWS? in shouty caps, but I hadn’t raised Christine for nineteen years without learning a thing or two. Questions were interpreted as intrusion. Expressing concern was the kiss of death. I had to walk on eggshells with Christine.

  I punched in GREAT, CALL SOON. Murder isn’t something you put in a text.

  I scrolled back to the other missed call. Strange. The number was Scottish. Someone in Scotland had called my cell phone at 12:48 AM on Saturday morning. There was a message.

  I listened, transfixed.

  The voice was Elenor’s.

  Grabbing my handbag, I found DI Devlin’s card.

  * * *

  “It’s definitely Elenor’s voice. But she sounds strange. Kind of slurry.” I stepped back as Detective Inspector Devlin barreled through the door of Applegarth Cottage.

  His shirt was rumpled, his tie askew. Dark circles had appeared under his eyes. I wondered how long he’d been away from home.

  I put my cell phone on speaker.

  “Kate … need you …” The voice caught. “ ‘S okay … help’s coming. Need you to keep something … hidden …” We listened until the time ran out, but there were no more words.

  “Are you sure it’s Mrs. Spurgeon?” Devlin took the phone.

  “Positive.” I shivered. “Did you hear it, right at the end? At first I thought it was the movement of air or the rustling of fabric, but when I listened again, it sounded more like a footstep.”

  “Forensics will analyze it.” He dropped the phone in an evidence bag and wrote out a receipt. “We should be able to return it to you in a day or so.”

  “Elenor said help was coming. Do you think she called 999?”

  “We’ll check.” He eyed the door.

  “There’s something I need to tell you about Agnes MacLeod. Did you know she has a pair of purple knitted gloves? I saw them. They were wet and—”

  “We’ll check on that, too.”

  “But I took—”

  “Please, Mrs. Hamilton. Leave this to us. Try to relax. Get a good night’s sleep.” He backed out, pulling the door firmly shut.

  I stared furiously at the closed door. Did the man ever let anyone finish a sent
ence? I could bring him a signed, notarized confession and he’d probably say, “We’ll check on that.”

  His taillights disappeared into the darkness. Snatching the strands of purple wool from my jacket pocket, I held them mutinously over the wastebasket. But I didn’t drop them. Instead I carried them to the kitchen, where I sealed the wisp of purple wool in a plastic baggie and tucked it in the outside pocket of my handbag.

  Ten minutes later I slipped between the smooth cotton sheets, switched on the bedside lamp, and opened The Diary to the page I’d marked.

  In early February, events took a troubling turn for Flora. At a country dance given by a neighboring family, old Sir Charles Murray, in the middle of a Scottish reel, proposed marriage. Flora refused him as tactfully as she could, but her father, exasperated by the sums spent on his daughter’s fruitless entrance into society, blew up.

  4th February

  Hazelbank House

  This evening I was called to Father’s study and made to account for what he called my unreasonable willfulness. He will not let Sir Charles go, clinging to his fortune like a sailor with only a plank between himself & a watery grave. “He is very old, Father,” said I. “I cannot marry him. I shall not change my mind.”

  “Will ye not obey me?” said he, calling me a most obstinate & ungrateful child. Thinking to frighten me into submission, he brought his fist down with such a blow that poor old MacPherson burst in, fearing Father had succumbed to a fit. Father vows to lock me in my chamber until I come to my senses & accept Sir Charles’ proposals. He has persuaded this credulous gentleman that I, being full young & inexperienced in the ways of the world, am merely reticent & will acquiesce in the end. If Sir Charles is fool enough to believe this fiction, I shall regret the pains I took in my refusal to avoid mentioning his age.

  Father is desperate & thus dangerous. I fear no one can defy him.