We passed the Chinese bridge and the koi pond. Giant ferns arched gracefully into the water. Above us, a magpie chattered at the pink and lavender sunset. Oh, how I hoped the National Trust would step in and save Finchley Hall. The residents of Long Barston needed this lovely green space with its deep, dark lake and tall old trees, a place of refuge from the world and its problems.
“Nigel Oakley has a sterling reputation,” Vivian said. “He’s dealt with the aristocracy before. No one has a bad word to say about him in the Cotswolds.”
“I liked him. I really did. But what do you know about his son and the other man—Martin Ingram?”
“According to their brochure, Peter studied architecture and design at university. He and Martin Ingram have been business partners for nine years. I figure Martin provides the knowledge of antiques, Peter the vision for the tithe barn, and Nigel the business sense—and the cash, of course.”
“What I’d like to see is a track record,” I said. “Starting an auction house isn’t a matter of hanging out a shingle and expecting clients and customers to show up—even if it is a listed tithe barn. They have to know people—dealers, collectors—to make a success of it. They have to build a reputation, and that takes time. I don’t want Lady Barbara to be their guinea pig.” I didn’t tell Vivian that Ivor’s Roman artifacts had brought in only half the expected value. If I expected them to be fair, I should be fair as well.
Presumably they had a website. If an auction was scheduled for Monday, I’d do my homework in advance—check their estimates, gauge the sort of items they dealt with.
“I spoke to Yasmin Green today,” Vivian said. “Ralston’s driving down to Torquay Friday morning to collect his mother. Yasmin says Ertha always returns home energized. The sea air, you know. Would Sunday work for you? They’ve invited you for lunch.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary, Vivian. I don’t want to put them out.”
“Ertha’s an old-fashioned sort, Kate. In her mind, you’re a celebrity. She wouldn’t think of having you to the house without offering something to eat. Best china and all. Ralston and the boys will be at football practice, so you’ll have Yasmin and Ertha all to yourself.”
“Tell Yasmin I’ll try not to stay too long.”
I hoped I could honor that promise. My list of questions for the former housekeeper at Hapthorn was growing by the minute.
When we got back to Rose Cottage, Vivian removed Fergus’s little boots, rinsed them off in the deep porcelain sink, and placed them by the back door—ready for their next outing.
My cell phone pinged a text. It was PC Anne Weldon, arranging to drive me to Hapthorn Lodge the following morning. I responded with a thumbs-up and slipped the phone back into my pocket.
I thought of the inventory sheets in my tote bag—line after line, page after page, of meticulously recorded purchases, going back at least twenty years. Would my job be a simple matter of matching objects with their listings?
Somehow I didn’t think so. Something sinister had been going on at Hapthorn Lodge—and whatever it was, it had led to Evelyn Villiers’s death.
Chapter Fifteen
Thursday, May 9
I woke at eight thirty the next morning. My eyes felt dry and irritated—not from drinking raspberry martinis (I admit to having two), but from reading Wallace Villiers’s inventory records until nearly one in the morning. I was rushing to get ready for my meeting with PC Weldon when my phone rang.
“We got it! The Domesday translation.” Ivor was practically crowing.
“That’s a good thing?” I couldn’t help pouring cold water on his enthusiasm. We hadn’t even received a check for the Perseus statue yet.
“It’s a marvelous thing, Kate. They’re sending it by courier from London. Can I give them your mobile number? They’ll text you with a date and time of arrival. You’ll need to be at the shop to sign for it.”
“And how do we pay for it?”
“Let me worry about that. I’m putting in a call to that professor in Essex I told you about. I hope he picks up. Some days he can’t manage the telephone. Anyway, I’ll arrange for delivery when he agrees to purchase.”
“You mean if he agrees.”
“When. It’s a sure thing, more’s the pity. I wouldn’t mind hanging on to the document for a while.”
Actually, I wouldn’t have either, but a ready buyer in the hand is worth two … well, worth two something.
“The police think they know how the thief got into the shop.” I told him what Tom had said about bump keys and signal jamming.
“Oh dear. I remember getting letters about that,” Ivor mumbled. “They suggested I modernize my system.”
“Why didn’t you do it?”
“Figured it was another way for the security company to take my money.”
“Oh, Ivor.”
“I’ll call them today. Have them get in touch with you about upgrading.”
I didn’t have the heart to ask how much that would cost. “How are you getting along?”
“They may release me early.”
“That is good news. I can’t wait to have you back.” I meant it. I missed him. Ivor had captured my heart, although I wasn’t about to tell him so. I’d been married to a Scot, after all, and if there was one thing I’d learned about the inhabitants of the British Isles, it was their emotional reserve. It’s the stiff-upper-lip rule: Sincerity is fine; enthusiasm is acceptable in small doses; emotional outbursts are practically treasonous.
“Ivor,” I said. “I have a question about the legend of the green maiden. Is there some historic evidence for her existence?”
“Who knows? In the early nineteen hundreds, a history buff from Essex wrote a book about her. According to him, the whole thing happened there, not in Suffolk. He said the green maiden bore a son and is buried in an unmarked grave in a village
