“I have an idea,” I said. “Maybe Evelyn Villiers didn’t know the name of her attacker and was trying to identify him as ‘the person who stole the Meissen,’ but all that came out was ‘Meissen.’”
“Possible. That’s why we need you to tell us if any of the artwork is missing.” Tom opened yet another set of wide pocket doors. “The photocopies are in here.”
I followed him into a handsome wood-paneled room. Curved mahogany bookcases with glazed shelves lined the room. A large desk and chair occupied the space in another of the wide bay windows. Lucy’s bedroom had to be directly above. Had she, on warm summer nights when the windows were open, listened in on her father’s conversations?
Tom handed me a sheaf of papers. “This may not be as easy as you thought.”
I thumbed through the papers, noticing photocopies of what appeared to be old Polaroids, some so badly faded the images were barely visible. “I think you’re right.”
Last December, when I’d made an inventory of the Finchley Hoard, my problem had been deciphering the often mystifying descriptions. Here, at least I had photographs to help me identify the objects—if I could make them out.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” Tom said. “I want a look in the garage,”
“Okay,” I said absently, sitting in Wallace Villiers’s big leather chair. I took my time working through the pages. Besides the porcelain and the paintings, he’d purchased all manner of fine things, including a pair of Louis XVI candelabra, a Chinese bronze from the early Five Dynasties period, and a George I gilt gesso side table. He’d spent a fortune amassing the collection. The investment business obviously paid well—or did he have something even more lucrative going on the side? The police would be looking through his financial records.
“Ready to go?” Tom appeared in the library.
“I’d like to check something on the way out.” I slipped the inventory sheets into my tote bag. “I found an article on the Villiers Collection in a local magazine. One of the photographs showed a Meissen figural group from the eighteenth-century commedia dell’arte collection. Right there—on that high mantelpiece over the fireplace.”
“Commedia dell’arte—am I meant to know what that is?”
“I’m sorry.” I frowned at him in mock apology. “I thought you said you were an Oxford graduate.”
“Ha-ha. Just tell me.”
“The commedia dell’arte was an early form of theater with stock characters. It began in Italy, spread all over Europe. I’m sure you know most of the names—Pierrot, Harlequin, Pantalone, Columbine, Scaramouche, Pulcinella. In England, that last chap turned into Punch of the Punch and Judy shows. Anyway, in the eighteenth century, Meissen commissioned a number of figural groups based on the stock characters. Mr. Villiers collected them. They’re worth a lot of money, and one of them used to stand right here.” I tapped the mantel.
“Maybe Mrs. Villiers sold off part of the collection.”
“Maybe.” Standing on tiptoes, I peered at the mantel. And felt a sudden chill.
Clearly visible in the dust was an oval shape that looked very much like the oval base of the Meissen piece in the photograph.
“It’s probably somewhere in the house.” Tom drove the car around the circular drive in front of Hapthorn Lodge and headed for the road.
“The lack of dust tells me the Meissen figurine was on the mantel until quite recently. Maybe she did sell it—hedging her bets by using several dealers at the same time. I wouldn’t blame her.”
“We’re checking with the local dealers. If you can write up a description, I’ll send it out.”
“I can do better than that. I can produce a photograph.”
The air was still, but the sky had the angry look of an approaching storm. I flinched as the hedgerows whizzed past, too close for comfort on my side. I knew from experience that my sense of impending doom would fade as my brain adjusted to sitting on the left side of the car, but I still felt like I should have a steering wheel in front of me.
The road dipped, then rose. Tom took the blind summit slowly, moving so far to the left I heard branches tapping my side of the car.
“Any theories?” he asked.
I had to laugh. “You told me once police don’t begin with theories.”
“We don’t unless the evidence points strongly in one direction—or when there’s no evidence to go on. That’s the problem here. A lack of evidence.”
“Except for the white petal.”
“Yes, but what does that actually tell us?”
I considered mentioning the bouquet of white tulips Lady Barbara had received from Nigel Oakley but decided against it. It would be unfair to implicate the ex-estate agent just because he liked white flowers and knew how to butter up potential customers. “Okay, let’s think about what might have happened.” I fished in my handbag for the small notebook and pen I always carried.
“Kate Hamilton, on the case.” He took his eyes from the road and gave me a broad grin.
I laughed. “Just for that, you go first.”
“Okay—we have a wealthy widow of sixty-eight, a recluse since the death of her husband eighteen years ago.”
“And a missing daughter, Lucy, who’d be”—I calculated the years—“thirty-five or thirty-six. Mrs. Villiers blamed Lucy for her father’s death and sent her to live with an aunt in Essex, a single woman. What was her name again?”
“Winnifred—now deceased. Normally in cases like this, we focus our investigation on family members—especially when there’s a sizable inheritance at stake. The problem here is a lack of family members.”
“Or at least ones you can locate. I’m still thinking about Evelyn Villiers’s interest in the green maiden legend. Did she think there was some family connection? In her
