“One glass of pinot gris and one club soda.” Tom set down our drinks and slid in next to me.
I lifted my glass and smiled at him. “Cheers.”
In the morning I’d find out if the Oakleys had set a date for the auction.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Saturday, May 18
The morning dawned clearer and dryer than it had in days. I made a quick phone call to the hospital in Ipswich. No change, the nurse told me, but the doctors had decided to wean Ivor off the intravenous sedative. As he regained consciousness, they would further assess any potential trauma to his brain. I arranged to drive over that afternoon.
I thought about calling Lucy, but she’d be at the solicitor’s office most of the day. I hoped she’d take some time to rest and process all that had happened to her.
Vivian was out with Fergus. She’d left the previous day’s newspaper on the table, folded to the headline: “Tragedy Strikes Long Barston Again.” They were harkening back to the series of murders the previous December, tragedies that had impacted Lady Barbara directly and led to her decision to transfer ownership of Finchley Hall to the National Trust.
After grabbing a bowl of Vivian’s oatmeal—the hardy, thick-textured stuff that sticks with you all morning—I set off for Finchley Hall.
The sky was an innocent blue, but several days of steady rain had left the ground sodden and muddy. The Stour near Long Barston was at its highest levels since the winter floods, and some business owners and residents in low-lying areas were already taking measures to prevent potential inundation. I squelched through the park in my newly purchased wellies, eager to hear if Lady Barbara had heard from Nigel Oakley.
She was in her private sitting room, finishing breakfast. The sun streamed through the windows, picking out the tiny lines around her mouth and eyes. I noticed a strip of wallpaper curling away from the crown molding.
“Good morning, dear. I was hoping you’d stop by. Saves me a phone call.” She set down her fragile bone china cup. “Would you like coffee? Morning is the only time I indulge.”
“Thank you, no. I’m here to find out about the auction.”
“Exactly the subject I wanted to discuss. It’s set for Tuesday. Preview at ten, auction at two. They’ve already sent out an updated electronic catalog to all their customers. Martin Ingram stopped by yesterday evening to show me the lovely photographs. So professional.”
“Are you planning to be there for the auction?”
“Vivian and I can’t wait. You’ll drive us, I hope.”
“Of course.” Someone had to curb their enthusiasm. And console them if the auction didn’t achieve the results they were counting on.
Declining coffee again, I headed for The Cabinet of Curiosities. Between the inventory to complete at Hapthorn and trips to the hospital in Ipswich, I’d neglected my duties at the shop. I didn’t expect any actual customers, but there was plenty to do, more than just following the sales. Everything needed a good dusting, and the silver items needed a polish—I’d been in the middle of that task a week ago when Mrs. Villiers had shown up with the húnpíng.
The first thing I did was open the pile of letters pushed through the mail slot.
My heart fell. Still no checks, and now seven additional clients wanted their consignment items returned. I had no choice but to be gracious and offer a time when they could pick them up. If this trend continued, the antiquities business Ivor had built up over decades would be permanently damaged. His only chance of survival was the arrest of the killer—and the return of the húnpíng, although that seemed like a pipe dream now.
The morning newspaper had arrived. Usually filled with local events, gossip, and Tesco coupons, the weekly edition featured another front-page article about the murder on the green and the theft at Ivor’s shop.
“Police Admit They Have No Leads in Antiquities Shop Horror”
First it was a tragedy. Now a horror. What next?
Besides, the problem wasn’t no leads. If anything, the police had too many leads, each pointing in a different direction. Was the murder of Evelyn Villiers a byproduct of the theft, or was the theft a cover for murder? Was money the motive, or was it revenge for the looting of Chinese national treasures? Had someone been preying on a defenseless widow, or had she been involved in something sinister herself?
Some questions were even more elusive. What had happened in Evelyn Villiers’s life to change her so profoundly? And where did the green maiden fit it?
Betrayal. I couldn’t get that word out of my mind, and that bothered me more than I was willing to admit. Was betrayal the key to everything, or was it a distraction created by my notoriously overactive imagination?
This wasn’t getting me anywhere. I balled up the newspaper and threw it in the trash.
Then I got out the silver polish.
At noon, after stowing the supplies and scrubbing the tarnish from my fingernails. I decided to take the bull by the horns and call Professor Markham.
I let it ring twelve times and was about to hang up, when he answered. “Yes? What is it?” Impatient. Snippy.
“This is Kate Hamilton,” I said in what my late husband used to call my butter-wouldn’t-melt voice. “I’m the one who dropped off the Little Domesday translation last week. I have a few questions about local history. I wonder if I might stop by and—”
“Certainly not. I’m far too busy.”
He clicked off, leaving me staring at my phone. Either Professor Markham possessed the natural charm of a boiled egg or—my brain made one of those surprising leaps—or I wasn’t approaching him in the right way.
That had to be it.
Asking him for a favor wasn’t going to work. What I should do instead was offer him
