And the worst part? He knew it.
Lady Barbara and I walked back to the barn.
“What’s your assessment, Kate? Are we right to let them handle the sale?”
“Everything looks fine so far. Let me know when your items will be auctioned. I’ll attend if I can. Once we see how they do, we’ll decide about the lacquer plate, all right?”
We stayed for the first hour of the auction. The items were of high quality, the valuations fair, and the prices realized impressive on the whole.
I would have enjoyed every moment if it hadn’t been for a growing awareness of Martin Ingram watching me. There was something predatory about him. Even so, I felt sure he wasn’t really interested in me—or in how things were done in the American antiques trade either. His real interest had to be the Villiers Collection. He wanted access and hoped I could grant it.
He was bound to be disappointed there. The fate of the Villiers Collection was up to Lucy Villiers.
If she was still alive.
Chapter Twenty-One
Wednesday, May 15
The morning after the auction, PC Anne Weldon and I returned to Hapthorn Lodge. We arrived at seven because she had to be back at the station by eleven.
She strolled through the house, admiring the architecture, while I set to work on the inventory.
I still hadn’t located Evelyn Villiers’s missing jewelry collection, nor any safe deposit keys or other clues to its whereabouts. Even stranger was the fact that Mr. Villiers’s meticulous records included no mention of purchasing jewelry, even though both Ertha Green and Evelyn herself said he bought jewelry on a regular basis. He must have kept those purchases in a separate file, and if the jewelry had been stolen, the thief might have removed the records too.
The Meissen Mockery of Age figural group was still nowhere to be found either. And now, about halfway through the process, several more Meissen figural groups appeared to be missing as well—both rare and both from the same mid-eighteenth-century commedia dell’arte collection. Normally I’d have assumed Mr. Villiers sold the objects or traded them for other treasures. Collectors buy, sell, and trade all the time. But I’d found no records of sales—strange because in every other way Wallace Villiers had been a nearly obsessive accountant.
One non-sinister explanation occurred to me—that Evelyn Villiers had sold the jewelry and the missing Meissen pieces herself. There were three problems with that theory. First, why? She had plenty of money. Second, where had the profits gone? According to Tom, her bank accounts showed no significant deposits or withdrawals. And third, if she’d sold the Meissen pieces herself, why mention it when she’d been fatally stabbed?
At ten, as Anne and I were preparing to call it a day, we heard a knock on the side door. She hurried to answer it and returned with a middle-aged man in a pin-striped suit. He was carrying a leather briefcase.
“Mrs. Hamilton.” He gave a stiff little bow. “Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Simon Crewe of Waltham & Crewe, Solicitors. We represent the estate of Evelyn Villiers. The police said I might find you here.” His eyes were pale, hooded, and lashless, giving him a slightly reptilian look.
I wasn’t predisposed to like him anyway. “You’re the one who sent that threatening letter about the stolen húnpíng jar.” I met his gaze. “I can assure you Mr. Tweedy is prepared to reimburse the estate for the full value. Is it really necessary to involve the courts?”
“This is a legal matter, Mrs. Hamilton. No threat intended, I assure you.” He placed his briefcase on the floor and folded his hands at his waist as if he wasn’t quite sure what to do with them. “With an estate of this size, the courts are automatically involved. We are following standard procedures.”
“Maybe so, but I don’t think you appreciate what a court case would do to Mr. Tweedy’s professional reputation. With the sensational nature of the crime, a legal proceeding is bound to get publicity. The antiquities trade depends upon trust. We’ve already felt the effects, and it’s unfair. Ivor had absolutely nothing to do with any of this. I’m the one who accepted the jar on consignment. You should be after me, not him.”
“Noble but irrelevant. Mr. Tweedy is the owner of The Curiosity Cabinet, is he not?”
“It’s The Cabinet of Curiosities, and yes, he is.”
“That makes him the respondent, not yourself.”
This was getting me nowhere. “Have you located Lucy Villiers?”
“Sadly, no. We haven’t given up, of course, but after a reasonable amount of time, we will be obliged to proceed with the estate.”
“If she isn’t found, who inherits—the relatives in Australia?”
He tsked, shaking his head. “I’m afraid that’s information I’m not at liberty to divulge.”
I tried again. “Well, how about this? I assume you knew Evelyn Villiers. Had she spoken to you recently about changing her will or attempting to break her husband’s trust?”
“Certainly not. For the record, I never met the woman. My father knew her personally, of course—he was the original Crewe in Waltham & Crewe—but he’s been gone for almost a decade. Now, if we could just—”
“How did she get money to live?”
He glanced at his watch. “Wallace Villiers set up a trust for his daughter and another for his wife—the residue to go to Lucy after her death. We sent Mrs. Villiers a maintenance check every month, which she cashed.”
“Did she ever ask for additional funds?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” He drummed a finger on the counter. “If she had, we would certainly have obliged.”
“Did she ever mention a wish to sell her husband’s art collection or her jewelry?” I was pushing my luck, but I might never have another chance to quiz him.
“She did not. Of course, it was her right to do so.” He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I don’t wish to appear impolite, Mrs. Hamilton,
