Vivian and Fergus left for Finchley Hall while I was still finishing my breakfast. Dressed in her baggy tweed skirt, moss-green twinset, and sturdy leather lace-ups, she stumped off with her walking stick as though she were about to inspect the troops. She’d probably done exactly that when Lady Barbara’s husband was alive. As his private secretary, I was sure she’d kept everything at Finchley Hall ship-shape and Bristol fashion.
Twenty minutes later, as I was leaving for the Hall, I received a text from Tom. The forensics team had a theory as to how Mrs. Villiers and her killer had entered the shop without setting off the alarm. He’d fill me in on our way to Hapthorn Lodge on Wednesday.
Every couple needs at least one common interest. Why did one of ours have to be murder?
The path from the cottage to the Hall led through Finchley Park and the brick-walled Elizabethan garden. With the old rose bricks soaking up and reflecting the warmth of the morning sun, the garden felt milder than the crisp morning air outside. I breathed in the resinous scent of English boxwood. Dwarf cultivars had been planted the previous autumn by the last of the interns, Peter, a handsome doctoral student from the University of East Anglia. The boxwood had already begun weaving itself into dense green mini-hedges defining the half-acre of geometric beds. Those closest to the kitchen were filled with herbs, lettuces, and low-growing berries. Farther from the house, flowers bloomed—dianthus, coral bells, foxgloves, and historic varieties of roses. Semi-dwarf apple and pear trees formed graceful, horizontal tiers against the brick walls. I could live here—assuming I had several million pounds burning a hole in my bank account.
Old Arthur Gedge, who’d tended the Finchley Hall grounds since he was a lad, still pottered about most days, but a team of professional landscape gardeners was needed—and soon. Grounds maintenance wasn’t the only problem Lady Barbara faced. Updating the ancient electrical system was the most pressing issue, followed by much-needed repairs to the lead roof over the east wing. And that was just for starters. The survival of Finchley Hall depended on the National Trust taking over—and on Lady Barbara’s ability to raise significant amounts of cash to tide her over until they did. I didn’t want to think about what she would do if the Trust declined her offer.
I found Lady Barbara and Vivian in the private sitting room with its white marble fireplace and faded wallpaper in a vintage design of urns and flowers. Morning sunlight streamed through the deep-set windows, picking out the frayed cushion on the armchair and the missing fringe on the carpet.
For once, they weren’t having tea. Lady Barbara looked all business in a simple cotton dress and fluffy silver-gray cardigan, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows.
A cool breeze blew in through the open French door, bringing the scent of fresh flowers. “They’re lovely,” I said, noticing the generous bouquet arranged in a crystal vase. “From your garden?”
Lady Barbara blushed. “Oh no. They’re a gift from that collector in Bury St. Edmunds—the one who helped you track down the missing artifacts from the Finchley Hoard last December.”
Ivor was the one who’d put us onto the reclusive collector who suffered from a rare form of albinism. The man had been intensely private—a response, I’d imagined, to the bullying he must have received in his youth. Initially I’d suspected him of dealing in stolen artifacts, an impression encouraged by his refusal to reveal his name and his habit of paying for valuable antiquities with stacks of twenty-pound notes.
“Flowers arrive weekly,” Vivian said.
“He really shouldn’t,” Lady Barbara said, but I could see she was secretly pleased. “I don’t blame him for anything. Charles knows that.”
“Charles? You’re on a first-name basis?”
Lady Barbara blushed again. “That’s all I’m allowed to say. You know how he values his privacy.”
“He has a title,” said Vivian, who loved knowing things other people didn’t. “A title even you would recognize.”
“Imagine that,” I said. Vivian’s blunt remarks were one of her endearing qualities.
“Enough of that.” Lady Barbara flapped her hands at us. “Now, Kate. What’s happening with the investigation? Viv said the police asked you to give a statement.”
“I did that yesterday. They’ve asked me to compile an inventory of the Villiers’s art collection and check it against the records Mr. Villiers kept.” I had no qualms telling them about my new job. If the local grapevine hadn’t heard it already, they would soon.
“Ah-ha,” Vivian crowed triumphantly. “The police believe Evelyn’s murder was connected with the art collection. Exactly my own theory.”
I refrained from saying that was fairly obvious. Instead I asked, “Do either of you remember who first mentioned last night that Mrs. Villiers was the victim?”
“I told you,” Vivian said. “Everyone at the fair was talking about it.”
“She’s right.” Lady Barbara wrinkled her forehead. “But wasn’t it the woman from The Finchley Arms who said it first?”
Vivian held up a forefinger. “Briony Peacock. Of course. She’d actually seen him, you know.”
“The murderer?”
“No—Henry Liu, on his delivery bicycle. Pedaling for all he was worth.”
“When was that?”
“Eight fifteen. She was helping her husband into his twill cassock and linen stockings for the play. Caught the back of Henry as he raced passed them.”
“Are you sure of the time?”
“You’d have to ask Briony,” Lady Barbara said, “but everyone was in costume by eight thirty. We did a walk-through before the pageant.”
Strange. Henry said he’d been in a hurry to get more shrimp rolls for the crowd after the pageant, but eight fifteen was a good forty-five minutes earlier than he’d claimed to have left the fair. Could the time difference be significant? Something else Tom needed to hear.
“Go ahead and show her, Barb.” Vivian cut into my thoughts. “You can’t afford to waste time, and I have rhubarb preserves to put up this afternoon.”
“This way, dear.” Lady Barbara held my arm as we made
