“Henry seems like a nice man—he really does. But there’s something about that night that doesn’t add up. I just can’t think what it is.”
“Well, if you figure it out, let me know.”
“Everything points to the White Lotus Society. An ancient Han dynasty funereal jar was stolen, and the woman who owned it was found stabbed to death. A white lotus-like petal was left for you to find. That indicates premeditation.”
“And a certain arrogance. As if they’re daring us to stop them.”
“I’m worried about Lady Barbara’s cinnabar plate. She has a letter admitting it was looted from the Summer Palace in Beijing—exactly what The White Lotus Society is after. Someone was lurking around the Hall last Saturday night—you saw the video footage. What if they were scoping out the place, figuring out how to get in?”
“We put in a formal request to the Chinese embassy in London for information about the Society, but they’re not going to admit anything dodgy, are they? We can hardly call in Interpol on the strength of a flower petal. What we need is someone with connections to the Chinese art market.”
“We have someone. He’s lying unconscious in the hospital. You could try a few of the major art dealers in London, although they’ll probably refuse to reveal information about their clients.”
“Actually, that’s why I called you earlier. We’ve identified several recent thefts in England of Chinese antiques and antiquities.” I heard the shuffling of papers. “I’m going to read this so I get it right—‘a bronze water vessel, a celadon amphora vase, and a pair of clay court figures.’ You probably know what all that means. Here’s the interesting part—in at least one of the locations, a white petal was left behind.”
“What do you mean by ‘at least one’?”
“Flower petals are an easy thing to overlook, aren’t they?”
“You’re taking the White Lotus Society thing seriously.”
“I always did, Kate. Now we have something to go on.”
“Why can’t you go with us to Hapthorn tomorrow? Lucy hasn’t been home in eighteen years. This could be important.”
Tom groaned. “I know, and I’d arranged to have a few hours off. But Sophie has to file papers with her lawyer in Cambridge. She received a large settlement from the divorce, and there’s red tape involved.”
“She needs help filing papers?”
“She needs moral support.”
“Can’t your mother go?”
“She has a dental appointment.”
“Root canal?” I muttered.
“Sorry, what?”
“Never mind. When will I see you?”
“How about tomorrow—dinner at The Three Magpies? Just us.”
“Perfect. Meet you there at seven.”
Feeling better, I checked my computer and found that several of Ivor’s items had sold—one for considerably more than the estimate. Another day at The Willows.
Putting my phone on vibrate in case the hospital called, I kicked off my shoes. Ivor would know all about the White Lotus Society. He’d know who to contact in England, perhaps even in China.
Where else could I get information?
I peeled off my jeans and my sweater.
Of course. Martin Ingram. Nigel Oakley said Martin had contacts in Asia.
No. An image of those ice-blue eyes filled my head.
For all I knew, Martin Ingram could be involved.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Friday, May 17
“I used to fantasize about coming home.” Lucy stood in the entrance to the drawing room of Hapthorn Lodge. She twisted a lock of hair around her finger. “Not to something like this.”
On the way to Hapthorn in PC Anne Weldon’s police car, I’d told Lucy what we’d found—her mother practically camping out in the small single room, the rest of the house looking like an abandoned warehouse. She’d heard me, but I don’t think it sunk in until she saw the state of her former home for herself.
Hapthorn Lodge had been built with the wide, airy rooms; light colors; and the simple, elegant features favored by the Edwardians, but it still felt dark and sad, even after we’d pulled open the drapes and flipped the wall-mounted toggle switches, illuminating a series of wall sconces. The gray skies, the pelting rain, and the drooping ivy around the windows underscored a feeling of desperation that pervaded the house.
I knew Lucy sensed it.
She moved tentatively into the room, her fingers brushing the drop cloths that covered the furniture. “What was happening here?”
“That’s what we’re hoping you can tell us.” Anne was examining one of the paintings propped against the wall. She stood up. “You’re the only link to the past we have, Lucy. We need you to look around carefully. You might see something we would never notice.”
“Everything’s out of place.” Lucy put her hands to her cheeks.
I could almost see her brain turning, trying to reconcile what she was seeing with her memories.
“Is anything missing?” Anne asked. “Something that should be here but isn’t?”
Lucy thought for a moment. “The photographs. Mother used to have framed photographs—loads of them, on top of those cabinets. Mostly of her and Father, but some of me, some of her parents.”
I remembered Mrs. Wright, the housekeeper, mentioning there were no photographs in the house.
“Did you find the albums?” Lucy picked up a paperweight and turned it toward the light.
“What albums?” asked Anne.
“Photograph albums. Mother had dozens—their wedding, their early years together. One for each holiday she and Father took when they were first married. Even a few of me—school photos, sports teams, stuff like that.”
“We didn’t find any albums,” Anne said, “but that’s the kind of thing that might help. Why don’t we walk through the rooms? Tell us what you notice.”
Lucy wasn’t much help at first. Except for the kitchen, all the rooms on the ground floor were jumbles of furniture and antiques. A strong musty odor permeated everything.
We climbed the main staircase.
Lucy opened the door to her parents’ bedroom. “I remember this, not that I was allowed in here often.” Her voice sounded almost wistful. “I do remember one day—Mother must have been in a good mood because she let me try on her jewelry, anything I wanted. Each piece had its own little felt compartment.”
“Where did your mother
