“I have an appointment with them tomorrow.”
“On Saturday?”
“Mr. Crewe wants me to sign papers. He’s going to give me a whole packet of information to read through. I have to decide what to do with Hapthorn and all those antiques. I don’t want any of it.”
“There must be personal things, Lucy—family mementoes you’ll want to keep.”
“Mementoes?” She huffed. “As far as I’m concerned, they can tear the place down.”
“You should at least have a look. How about the dolls your father sent you?”
“You’re right,” she conceded. “I will go back.”
“If you want help—or just company—let me know.”
“That would be nice.” She smiled. “I don’t think I could face it on my own.”
“If you’re busy with the solicitors tomorrow, how about Sunday? I have some free time in the morning. You could make a start then.”
Later, I dropped Lucy off at the Premier Inn. She looked back over her shoulder once, then disappeared through the entrance door.
Two weeks ago her mother had been brutally murdered.
Lucy was alone and vulnerable. A thought struck me.
Was she also in danger?
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Three Magpies in Long Barston was humming. I’d worn my red dress, the one Tom especially liked—the one I’d refused to purchase until Charlotte, my best friend and fashion Nazi, threatened to buy it for me.
Tom hadn’t arrived yet. I found Jayne Collier at the bar. She and her husband, Gavin, were Londoners who’d bought the pub several years ago. The first couple of years had been touch-and-go, but they’d finally managed to overcome the local prejudice against newcomers—and a spot of mild harassment from the other village pub, The Finchley Arms, owned by Briony and Stephen Peacock, survivors of the “If it feels good, do it” generation.
“How are you getting along with The Arms?” I asked. “No more dueling sidewalk signs?” Last December, the Magpie’s sidewalk billboards—daily specials and upcoming events—had been mocked by rival signs from The Arms, rude but usually hilarious (not that I’d admit it to Jayne).
“At the moment, we’re enjoying an uneasy truce. They’ll never forgive us for existing, but they’ve given up trying to compete with us on food.” She smiled at me from behind the taps. “I’ve seen so little of you, Kate. But of course you’re busy with this terrible business. How is Ivor?”
“The doctors are keeping him sedated until they determine the extent of his injuries.”
“If there’s anything I can do—” She handed me a glass of pinot gris. “I’ve given you and Tom the table in the corner. Have a seat. I’ll bring you some bread and olives.”
The Magpie’s famous homemade sourdough was accompanied by pots of olives in lemon-and-coriander-infused oil. I sipped my wine and speared one of the small, purplish-brown olives.
When Tom arrived, Jayne Collier handed him a glass of Mauldon’s Suffolk Pride, his current favorite ale.
“Sorry, Kate. Traffic was brutal.” He reached down to give me a kiss before sliding into the banquette tucked under a window. “I didn’t even stop home except to change shirts.” One corner of his mouth turned up. “It’s wonderful to see you.”
“How did it go with Sophie in Cambridge?”
“The divorce settlement was far more generous than she’d expected. She can pretty much do what she wants in life.”
“Lucky woman. Will she settle in Saxby St. Clare?” Please tell me she’s booked a round-the-world cruise.
“She says so now, but I have a feeling village life will be too sedate for her. I see her in London—or the south of France.”
Over your mother’s dead body was the response that came to mind. Instead, I said, “Well, wherever Sophie settles, I hope she’s happy.”
Did I just say that? I was either the world’s biggest hypocrite or well on my way to sainthood.
Tom tore off a piece of sourdough and dipped it in the oil. “Two bits of good news. Lucy’s story checks out. She was on the car ferry from Belfast on the fifteenth, as she said. No previous bookings or flights.”
“That’s good. And the second?”
“We heard from Australia. The police there have located Wallace Villiers’s niece. She’s a hairstylist in Melbourne—two kids. Claims to have lost touch with her brother, but a former neighbor said he took a job on an almond farm in the Outback. The police are following up.” He took a bite of the bread. “How was Lucy’s trip to Hapthorn?”
“Emotional. She’s seeing the solicitor tomorrow. I met him, by the way—Simon Crewe. He asked me to provide them with a copy of the inventory.”
“Estate purposes, I assume.”
“I think Lucy may sell everything. I feel sorry for her—thrust into making decisions about her mother’s affairs when they hadn’t been in contact all those years. I promised to help her sort through a few personal things Sunday morning.”
“PC Weldon says she offered no theories about the state of the house.”
“She noticed all the family photographs were gone. It’s weird, Tom. Evelyn made a complete break with her past—and yet she remained in the house with all those memories.”
“Lucy didn’t provide any insight at all?”
“None. She’d never seen the photograph over her mother’s bed.” I took another sip of wine.
“I can see your mind turning, Kate,” he said. “What is it?”
“I think the key to this is Evelyn Villiers.”
He laughed. “That’s obvious. She was the murder victim.”
“I don’t mean that. I mean her personality, her character. There were two turning points in Evelyn’s life—eighteen years ago, when her husband died, and then sometime prior to last Saturday, when she brought the húnpíng into Ivor’s shop.”
“How does that help us find her killer?”
“I think each of those events sent her on a new trajectory. Lucy said her mother didn’t believe in an afterlife, but she had a New Testament on her bedside table. Mrs. Wright said she loved sitting by the river, and there’s that photograph above her bed, but Lucy says her mother complained about the river’s dampness. And the jewelry.
