“The rain’s getting worse. Why don’t you leave your car at the church and stay here tonight? I’ll make up a bed on the sofa. In the morning, we’ll call someone I know—a detective inspector. You’ll be safe with him. I promise.”
She looked at me doubtfully. “I just want to find out who killed my mother.”
“Of course you do. That’s exactly what my friend—what Tom is trying to do.”
She massaged her forehead, then let her hand drop. “I suppose you’re right. I will have to face the police sometime.”
My heart went out to her. She’d been carrying this burden alone for eighteen years. “There’s no need to lie anymore.”
I hoped it was true.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Tuesday, May 16
Early the next morning, Lucy and I met Tom at The Dog & Partridge in Bury St. Edmunds. Lucy had refused to go police headquarters, agreeing to meet Tom at the pub only if I would remain with her.
I spotted Tom sitting in a corner with his sergeant, DS Ryan Cliffe, who was probably there to take notes. Tom rose as we approached. “I’m Detective Inspector Mallory.” He showed Lucy his warrant card. “Thank you for coming. Can I get either of you a tea or a coffee?”
We opted for tea. The place was empty except for a sleepy-looking woman in a green apron. It occurred to me the pub wasn’t actually open yet.
Lucy removed her anorak and hung it over the back of her chair. “I need the ladies’.”
The woman in the green apron showed her the way.
“How’s Ivor?” Tom asked when she was out of earshot.
“Still unconscious. I called first thing.” I hadn’t mentioned Ivor’s fall to Lucy—not that it made any difference to her, but I didn’t want to complicate her meeting with Tom. “I’ll stay as long as I can, but it will take me forty minutes to get to Ipswich, and I want to be at the hospital as close to nine thirty as possible. You’ll drive Lucy back, right?” I hoped she wouldn’t interpret that as abandonment.
The tea came with a rack of buttered toast and three pots of jam.
Lucy returned, looking pale. She wore the same plain brown cotton slacks and oatmeal turtleneck she’d had on the night before—we hadn’t had time to stop at the inn for a change of clothes—but she’d washed her hair. It was still damp, hanging in strands.
“I’m sorry about your mother,” Tom said. “We’re doing all we can to find her killer.”
“Kate said you had questions.” Lucy crossed her arms as though bracing herself.
Tom went through a few preliminary questions—how she’d heard of her mother’s death, when she arrived in England, why she’d sought me out. He was good at his job, managing to pin Lucy down on specific times and places without making her feel like a suspect. The first thing he’d do would be to eliminate her as a suspect. If she’d arrived in England when she claimed, she couldn’t have been involved in her mother’s death.
DS Cliffe scribbled in his notebook. I don’t think Lucy even noticed. Her eyes kept swinging to me, as if looking for support—or approval.
“Would you like toast?” I pushed the toast rack toward her. Vivian had made scrambled eggs with slabs of thick bacon for her surprise overnight guest, but Lucy had refused to eat.
“I couldn’t.” She’d barely tasted her tea either. “Where’s my mother’s body?” she asked Tom. “Do I need to see her or something—identify her?”
Tom answered. “I’m sorry, Lucy. That’s no longer possible.”
“Cremation,” Lucy said with a little wrinkle of disgust. “I might have guessed. She insisted on it with father, even though Aunt Winnie protested. And no religious service either, I’m sure. She never believed in an afterlife.”
So why did she have a New Testament beside her bed?
“Your mother was identified by”—I thought Tom was going to say my name. Instead he said—“the woman who kept house for her, a Mrs. Wright.”
Lucy blinked at him. Her lip quivered. “What happened to Ertha—Mrs. Green?”
“Retired,” I said, smiling. “Living in Long Barston with her son and his family.”
“Let’s talk about your father’s art collection,” Tom said. “You knew about his passion for fine antiques and works of art.”
“I could hardly have escaped. It was all over the house. I wasn’t interested.”
“Did you ever see an ancient Chinese jar called a húnpíng?”
“What’s that?”
Tom looked at me.
“The pottery that was stolen. A round jar,” I said, “about this size.” I used my hands to indicate the dimensions. “Dull gray-green glaze. Lots of figures and details on top.”
“Oh, that. I remember he was quite excited when he brought it home. I thought it was weird—and a little creepy.”
Precisely my kids’ reactions to some of the things I brought home. My son, Eric, had once taken a rare pre-Columbian terracotta figure to school—in his backpack along with his books and soccer cleats—passing it off as a voodoo doll to impress his friends. Good thing it didn’t break. The money I got for it paid for his freshman year of college.
“We understand your mother didn’t share his interest in art,” Tom said.
“Oh, she did. Not as much as father, certainly, but she loved the things he brought home—especially the jewelry.”
Tom shot me a look. We were both thinking of the plain gold-filled locket—and the empty jewelry drawer at Hapthorn Lodge.
“Do you remember your mother wearing a heart-shaped locket?”
Lucy looked confused. “No. Was she wearing one when—”
“When she died, yes,” Tom said. “Do you know anyone named Grenfel? Her maiden name, perhaps?”
“Mother’s maiden name was Shipton.”
“Did you ever hear your mother mention a wagon bell?” I asked.
“Wagon bell?” Lucy shook her head. “Why would she?”
“It’s something she mentioned to Kate,” Tom said. “We may have gotten it wrong. Can you describe what happened the night your father died?”
Lucy swallowed. “Colin had promised to come for me at one AM. I had my suitcase all packed, and—”
What she described matched the account in the newspaper. Her parents heard
