She handed me a basket. “We call this ‘coco bread.’” She laughed. “No one remembers why.”
I unfolded the bright orange cloth and took one of the soft, yeasty buns.
“You used to make bread every day, didn’t you?” Yasmin smiled at the old lady. “Now only for special.”
While we ate, Ertha told me about growing up on her small island in the British West Indies. Her older sister had emigrated first, joining relatives in Birmingham. After Ertha’s husband was killed in an agricultural accident, she followed with her son, Ralston, then only two. For almost twenty years, she’d worked in a local Caribbean restaurant. Then, when Ralston was recruited by Ipswich Town, a League One football club, she moved to Suffolk, taking up the post as cook and housekeeper for the Villiers.
After the meal, we carried our dessert, a flaky pastry rolled with currants, onto the back patio, where Yasmin had set out a painted wooden table and three chairs lined with fleeces and soft blankets. A patch of wet green grass was bordered by a riot of rain-soaked flowers—red parrot tulips and orange poppies, pure white stock, and lilacs of the deepest purple, all set against the cool blue-green of lady’s mantle and lacy emerald Solomon’s seal. A small fountain sent water cascading over rocks.
“Mommy loves to be outdoors,” Yasmin said, tucking the blanket around the old lady’s shoulders, “even when the air is cool and damp.”
I finished the last bite of pastry and pulled my own blanket closer. “What can you tell me about the Villiers family, Ertha? It’s not mere curiosity. Mr. Tweedy needs to contact Lucy—if she can be located.”
“I was there when Lucy was born, poor child.”
“Why poor?”
“Mrs. Villiers was never a mother at heart, you know—God rest her soul. It was hard for her with her husband away so often, and Lucy was never an easy child. High-strung. Secretive. Her parents sent her away to school when she was eight, but it didn’t work out.” Ertha shook her head sadly. “Couldn’t fit in with the other girls, could she now? They brought her home in the end.”
“Do you remember Mrs. Villiers talking about a wagon bell?”
Ertha chuckled. “Don’t t’ink she ever saw a wagon in her life, that one. Now my father had a cart and an old donkey who refused to take orders, so we—” She stopped herself. “But you haven’t come to hear about that. What else do you want to know, child?”
I smiled at her. The truth was, I could have spent the rest of the day listening to her memories. “Why was Mr. Villiers gone so much?”
“Making investments for his firm all over the world.”
“And collecting art and antiques?”
“My, yes. Somet’ing new every trip. And he always brought somet’ing for his wife.”
“I got the impression she wasn’t interested in antiques.”
“I t’ink she liked them well enough, especially the jewelry. Somet’ing pretty to wear—a ring, a necklace, a hair clip.”
“Was Mr. Villiers a good father?”
The twisting of her mouth was so slight I might have missed it. “I suppose so—when he was home. He always brought Lucy somet’ing too, when he’d been away. Mostly dolls, dressed up in costumes from the countries he’d visited.”
I remembered them, lined up on the shelf in her room. “Was he a good husband?”
“Don’t want to speak ill of the dead, now.” She looked at me, her dark eyes unblinking.
“Even if it helps us find Lucy?”
She seemed to consider this and shrugged. “I don’t know this for true, you understand, but I don’t t’ink it was a happy marriage. You can’t help hearing t’ings, can you, when you live in the same house? The arguments, the tears. Never said a word to me, Mrs. Villiers, but I knew.”
“Did you ever hear about relatives in Australia?”
“He had a sister in Australia. Letters would come from time to time.”
“Did the sister have a family?”
“That I wouldn’t know.”
“Were they on good terms?”
“No reason to doubt it.”
“Tell me about the young man who worked for Mr. Villiers—Colin Wardle.”
“Called himself a chauffeur, but he did other t’ings as well. Oh, he was a sly one.” Ertha folded her hands on her lap.
“Sly in what way?”
“Couldn’t be trusted. He’d lie about little t’ings—driving that big car without permission, taking cash from the cookie jar, coming to work late, leaving early. Taking advantage when Mr. Villiers was away on one of his trips. I told Mrs. Villiers what I saw. She tried to tell her husband, but he didn’t want to hear it, did he?”
“And then a painting was stolen.”
“Right off the wall, bold as brass. Mrs. Villiers was sure it was Colin, but Mr. Villiers refused to believe it, said she was out to get the boy fired. It all came out later—that he and Lucy were involved, and her just a child. Too good-looking he was, and knew it. Mr. Villiers was furious. Told the boy to clear off. It wasn’t two weeks later when I woke to shouting. I looked out my window and saw them on the drive. Lucy had a suitcase. Colin and Mr. Villiers began to fight. I didn’t know what to do, child—whether to call the police or wake Mrs. Villiers. Didn’t need to in the end. She ran out in her dressing gown and took Lucy inside. T’ings seemed to settle down between the two men. That’s when Mr. Villiers fell. Like a tree. Didn’t even try to break his fall. Must have been dead already. Then I did call the police.”
“And Mrs. Villiers blamed Lucy.”
“Lord Almighty, she was in a state. Said Lucy broke her father’s heart, and maybe she had.” Ertha gazed into the middle distance. “It was cold the day of the inquest. Early spring. Afterward, Mrs. Villiers took to her room, refused to come out.”
“Why, Ertha, when the marriage hadn’t been happy?”
“I t’ink
