“And why did she say Meissen?”
“Let’s back up a bit,” I said, jotting down the questions. “Why was Lucy sent away? I know her mother blamed her for her father’s death, but Wallace Villiers must have had a preexisting condition. Lucy was a child—just seventeen. Why was her mother unwilling or unable to forgive her?”
“Vindictive personality? Queen Victoria blamed her son Bertie for his father’s death. Some mothers never do develop the motherly instinct.”
“I’m hoping Ertha Green can tell us something about the relationship between mother and daughter.” I wrote Why was EV unable to forgive Lucy?, adding Ask Ertha Green.
“Any other questions?” Tom asked.
“Yes—why did Evelyn Villiers live like an unwanted guest in her own home? I guess I can understand moving out of the bedroom she shared with her husband, but she didn’t have to live like a hermit. It’s almost as if …” It took me a moment to put it into words. “Almost as if she felt guilty, as if she didn’t deserve to enjoy her wealth.”
“Why not move, then?”
I pictured the dust sheets, the jumble of antiques. “Maybe she was in the process of moving, and something—or someone—stopped her.”
We turned right onto the B road into Little Gosling. A few fat raindrops, harbingers of the coming storm, plopped against the windshield. Tom flipped on the wipers.
Little Gosling was not much more than a widening in the road. On the north side of the village was the housing estate where Danny, the child who’d helped us solve a murder last December, lived with his mother, Glenda. We passed a village green with a duck pond and a few well-preserved medieval houses, then a petrol station and a pub, The Packhorse.
“Read what you’ve written so far,” Tom said.
I read the questions aloud.
What was Evelyn Villiers’s connection with the green maiden?
Why did she say Meissen?
Why was Lucy sent away after her father’s death?
Why was EV unable to forgive Lucy? Ask Ertha Green.
Why did Evelyn live like a hermit doing penance?”
“Here’s a sixth,” Tom said. “What made Evelyn so sure Colin Wardle stole that painting? And, if he was guilty, why did Lucy lie for him that night?”
“Oh, that’s easy—to protect him. Girls do all kinds of silly things when they’re in love.”
“Do they indeed?” He flashed me a wicked smile.
“We’re focusing on Colin Wardle, remember? That’s something else Ertha Green might be able to shed light on. Do you want to sit in on the interview?”
“I don’t think so,” Tom said. “She’ll speak more freely with you alone—but I do expect a full report. I’ll compare it to the original statement Ertha gave after Wallace Villiers’s death. They say time clouds memories, but that’s not always true. Sometimes the passage of time clarifies memories. And sometimes witnesses are willing to be more candid after the initial crisis has passed.”
“Any other questions to add to the list?” I held up my pen.
“Quite a few, as a matter of fact. What was that white flower petal doing in Ivor’s shop? Where is Lucy Villiers now? What happened to the Chinese jar? Why did Mrs. Villiers fire Ertha Green?”
I scribbled as fast as I could. “I keep circling back to my mother’s question.”
Tom glanced at me. “What changed in Evelyn Villiers’s life?”
“Exactly. I think everything depends on that.” I added the question at the top of the list and settled against the car seat, listening to the rhythm of the wipers. Were the questions we’d asked the right ones?
We passed a field of sheep—not the black-faced Suffolks, but the smaller white Merinos raised for their fine, soft wool. The sky opened up, spilling drops of rain against the windscreen and bringing the mineral smell of wet earth.
I wished Ivor were there. I wanted to talk to him about the missing Meissen figural group and the possibility of thieves targeting high-end collectors.
My questions would have to wait. Tonight was Lady Barbara’s cocktail party—and my chance to meet the Oakleys. At least one question might be answered.
Were the owners of the new auction house to be trusted with Lady Barbara’s future?
Chapter Fourteen
I slipped my new black dress over my head, zipped it up, and hoped it would do. When Lady Barbara invited friends for cocktails, Vivian had informed me, they put on their finest and came anticipating a delicious selection of hors d’oeuvres, whipped up by the redoubtable Mrs. Francie Jewell, cook extraordinaire and maid of all work. She was a treasure.
My finest was a short black cocktail dress with an asymmetrical neckline, paired with my new black slingbacks and a tiny beaded purse. For the record, all my pretty clothes were chosen by my best friend, Charlotte, an ex-window dresser for an upscale dress shop in Chicago. I am not trusted to shop alone.
Outside, the on-again, off-again rain had passed through, and the gray clouds had given way to a clear evening sky. Since the grass was wet, Vivian and I walked over to Finchley Hall in our rubber wellies, carrying our dress shoes in plastic baggies. Fergus the pug wore his own little rubber boots too, which made him prance along the gravel path like a show pony, but I didn’t dare laugh. His feelings are easily hurt.
We gathered, not in the Hall’s high-ceilinged formal drawing room, but in the charming coral-pink private drawing room. This room, I’d been glad to learn, would be part of the small suite of rooms Lady Barbara would occupy when The National Trust took possession of Finchley Hall.
If they ever did.
I was surprised to see the Chinese lacquerware plate prominently displayed on an oak sideboard. Lady Barbara must have been planning to show it to the Oakleys.
Francie Jewell, spiffed out in a black dress and frilly white apron, held out a tray of drinks. “Raspberry martini or whiskey sour?”
“Martini, please.” I took a sip and closed my eyes, savoring the intense raspberry
