“Hmm.” I wasn’t convinced.
“I promise you, we’re following every line of inquiry” Tom clicked open his car and tossed his umbrella in the rear seat.
“What lines of inquiry?”
“Lucy Villiers, for one. She stands to inherit a fortune, so where is she? And there’s the young man who, according to the housekeeper, did errands at Hapthorn Lodge.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “The dark van seen in the neighborhood, the general disorder in the house, the Australian connection, the White Lotus Society, even the housekeeper herself.”
“You didn’t mention the gardener.”
“Not a suspect. He was visiting his grandchildren in London when Mrs. Villiers was killed.”
“Don’t forget the green maiden.” I half expected him to say, How could I when you keep bringing her up?
Instead, he said, “This is why a police inquiry takes time, Kate. No stone left unturned. When the stones begin pointing in the same direction, we know we’re on the right track.”
“Maybe the young man Mrs. Wright saw is the Australian connection. What if Wallace’s sister had a son who came to England, hoping to cash in on the Villiers’ fortune, and discovered that his uncle’s widow was an easy mark?”
“Then we’ll hear from him—or the solicitor will. In the meantime, we’re following up with the Australian authorities. As I said, everything takes time.”
I made a mental note to ask Ertha Green about the Australian relatives.
A roll of thunder sounded, far away. Tom looked at the sky. “More rain. In some areas, the river has already reached flood stage.”
“We’re not going to get that walk today, are we?”
“Just as well. With this new development, I’ll be spending extra time at the office. If you want to go to Hapthorn later today, I’ll ask PC Weldon to drive you.”
“No chance of my going alone, I suppose.”
“None whatsoever—and not because I don’t trust you. Even police work in pairs.”
“So you are worried about further thefts.”
“I’m a policeman, Kate. I’m always worried.”
“Tell Anne to phone me when she’s free. I want to finish the inventory so I can focus on Ivor and the shop. I suppose you’d tell me if there was news about Lucy Villiers.”
“I would, and there isn’t. Technically, the missing person case is still open, but there’s no record of her living in the UK—or leaving it. She hasn’t registered with the National Health, which is how we usually trace missing persons. She hasn’t applied for a passport or a driver’s license. She’s either changed her identity, or—” he stopped, opening his car door.
“Or what?”
“Or she’s no longer alive.”
Chapter Nineteen
Sunday, May 12
The Green family lived in a single-story pebbledash cottage, painted white and nearly overwhelmed by giant rhododendron bushes.
“Come in, come in.” Yasmin Green beckoned me inside. “Mommy, she’s here,” Yasmin called over her shoulder.
Yasmin was a lovely young woman with smooth skin, asymmetrical goddess braids, and a figure that could not only stop traffic, but hearts.
The smell of something savory reminded me I was hungry. Rose Cottage had lost electricity for a time during the night, which meant the alarms hadn’t gone off. Vivian and I had dashed off to the early morning service at St. Æthelric’s with only tea to tide us over.
A huge tabby cat streaked past my legs and out the open door.
“That’s Cookie,” Yasmin said. “Champion mouser.”
I was beginning to feel like a mouse myself—on one of those exercise wheels, going nowhere but getting there fast. My trip to Hapthorn the previous afternoon had been canceled because Anne Weldon’s baby, Maddie, fifteen months old, had come down with a cold and had to be kept home from her childminder. Instead, I’d gone to Ivor’s shop, finding three e-mails from consignment clients who’d decided to take their items back, plus an ominous-looking envelope from Waltham & Crewe, Solicitors, informing Ivor they’d filed a claim for the húnpíng jar in the Magistrates’ Court in Ipswich. Whoever said “all publicity is good publicity” should have their private cell numbers shared with the friendly telemarketers at “the technical department.”
“I promise not to take too much of Ertha’s time,” I told Yasmin.
“Don’t be silly, Kate.” She laughed. “This will be the highlight of her day. She insisted on wearing her very best summer dress.”
An umbrella stand in the tiny entrance hall was stuffed with cricket bats and shin guards. Two athletic bags had been stowed under a narrow table. The sitting room was crowded with books and potted plants. A half-completed jigsaw puzzle had been laid out on the low coffee table. This was a busy, happy family home.
Ertha Green sat, with her hands folded, in a high-back chair. At ninety-something, she was small and birdlike with close-cropped white hair, velvet-brown eyes, and a face made for smiling. Her best summer dress was crisp cotton in a lavender and white print. White button earrings matched the shawl draped over her shoulders.
“So you’re t’e one who wants to know,” she said, the rhythm of her speech falling like waves on sand.
“Hello, Mrs. Green. It’s so nice to meet you. I’m hoping you can help me find Lucy Villiers. She’s missing.”
“I heard so. Long time ago now.”
I was about to ask her a question when Yasmin bustled into the room, her braids bouncing on her shoulders. “Come, you two. Everything’s ready.”
According to Vivian, Yasmin’s parents had emigrated from Tobago when she was a toddler. She’d grown up in Suffolk and attended the local comprehensive school. Her career with the Royal Mail began with holiday shifts until a job opened up for a permanent mail carrier.
The square kitchen table was covered with a marine-blue cloth. The chairs had cushions in alternating stripes of coral, citrus, and fern green. A wooden cross hung on the wall over a painting of a tropical cove.
“Mommy thought you might enjoy a Caribbean meal.” Yasmin filled our glasses. “Mango and passion fruit—hope you like it.”
I took a sip. “This is wonderful.”
Yasmin uncovered a casserole dish. “Pelau, one
