“What did you think?”
Ertha closed her eyes. “At the time, I thought it was for the best.”
“When did Mrs. Villiers tell you to leave?”
“Later the following day I found a letter on the kitchen counter. I kept it, Lord knows why. Yasmin, will you look in my dresser? Bottom shelf, under my t’ings.”
Yasmin brought an envelope, still crisp. Ertha opened it, unfolded the paper inside, and handed me a typed letter.
14 March 2002
Dear Mrs. Green,
I regret to inform you that your services are no longer required at Hapthorn. I would be obliged if you would gather your belongings and leave at your earliest convenience, no later than March 17th. In this envelope you will find the sum of £500 as severance, which I hope will enable you to secure a temporary place to live until a suitable position becomes available. Attached is a brief written reference. I shall not respond to any further enquiries about your employment, nor do I wish any prospective employers to call or write to me. Please make this clear when you apply for a new position.
“She didn’t even bother to sign it,” Ertha said.
“Why did she fire you?”
“I’ve wondered about that. Money trouble, I thought at the time. She was a proud woman.”
“What did you do then?” I handed the letter back.
“Oh, child.” She chuckled. “You know when the Lord closes a door, He opens a window. I kept house for my Ralston. And now for Yasmin and my two grandsons.”
“We’re a family, aren’t we?” Yasmin bent down and kissed her mother-in-law’s cheek. “She’s been a blessing.”
Who was taking care of whom at this point didn’t seem to matter.
“Did you ever hear from Lucy?” I asked.
“Never. And then Ralston told me she’d gone missing, poor child.”
I could see Ertha was tiring.
“Do you have any idea where she might have gone, Ertha? Friends, other relatives?”
“The Lord, He knows,” she said quietly as her eyes closed.
Chapter Twenty
Monday, May 13
Lady Barbara and I arrived at Oakley’s auction house around one thirty in the afternoon. The drive along Mill Lane had been pleasant—farmland sectioned by hedgerows and a few spreading trees. We’d spotted the tithe barn from a distance, a dark, wood-clad structure with a steeply pitched thatched roof and half-hipped gable ends. We parked in the guest lot, and I helped Lady Barbara navigate the stone walk.
“You should have seen the grand opening,” she said. “Champagne, cocktails, delicious food, a classical quartet. Very impressive.”
“It must have been. Not every auction house is set in a Grade Two–listed building.”
In the Middle Ages, almost every village in northern Europe had a tithe barn. It was the place where farmers brought a portion of their produce as payment for land rents and tithes to the local church. The National Trust maintains at least four tithe barns in England. I’d been lucky enough to see two of them. This tithe barn, I’d read on the Oakley’s website, had been on private property for four hundred years and was slated for demolition when they purchased it.
We stepped inside. The auction preview was underway—well attended and lively, an excellent sign. What I’d planned to do was stroll around, examining the items to be auctioned off—checking for chips, cracks, reproductions, and what’s called in the trade “married pieces”—chests, for example, that have been joined with bases and legs from another chest, combining the two best parts of each to make one charming but not original piece of furniture. It happens all the time.
As it turned out, I was having a hard time tearing my eyes away from the tithe barn itself.
Tiny lights followed the lines of the roof beams, creating a fairytale ambiance. The side bays were lined with goods to be auctioned off—furniture, oriental rugs, porcelain, precious metals. Chairs had been set up in the center for the auction. The selling platform and auctioneer’s stand were in place and ready to go. The auction would begin at three. Most bidders were examining the merchandise. A few had already claimed their seats.
“Quite an incredible structure, isn’t it?” Nigel Oakley found us staring up at the soaring maze of tie beams. “Built in the late sixteenth century. Fortunately, the original frame and bracing beams were sound—English Oak. We had only to repair and reinforce some of the pegged joints with iron straps and bolts. Sadly, we weren’t able to save the elm planking on the exterior, but we left a small section of the original on the west side.”
“The thatching looks new.”
“The roof was rethatched in 1975, then repaired in 1986 after a fire. We recapped it with natural reed—sedge for the trim cap. Should last another fifty or sixty years.”
I spotted Peter Oakley across the room, schmoozing with the clients. He was impeccably groomed and in high spirits—quite different from our first meeting, when he’d appeared bored and restless. Seeing me, he saluted.
Lady Barbara took my arm. “Exciting, isn’t it?”
A young man in a waiter’s uniform offered us a tray of champagne flutes.
“Glass of champagne?” Nigel asked. “Shameless, I know, but it gets everyone in the bidding mood.”
“No, thank you,” Lady Barbara said. “I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea.”
Nigel escorted us through the crowd to the rear wall, where urns of tea and coffee had been lined up on a wooden counter near the kiosk where bidders registered and received their numbered paddles.
“Let’s find somewhere more private,” Nigel said.
Carrying our china cups, we followed him into an office area behind the kiosk. Here the décor was strictly twenty-first century—glass, wood, and iron with textured upholstery in pale neutrals. Nigel ushered us toward a seating area near a wall-mounted fireplace, where orange flames danced above amber beads. He must have invested a fortune in the renovation.
“Make yourselves comfortable.”
