“I do as a matter of fact. I’ve been trying to understand why your mother turned her back on her former life. She could have remarried. She could have done anything she liked. Instead, she lived like a hermit.”
“If I knew why, I’d tell you. All I know is she blamed me for my father’s death—and that made her hate Colin even more.”
“Did your mother grow up near a river?”
Lucy stared at me. “Near a river? Not that I know of—why?”
“The housekeeper said she loved the river. She would sit along the bank for hours, watching the water go by.”
“She never did that when I was home.”
“I think she developed an interest in the legend of the green maiden.”
“You mentioned that.”
“She had a book of local legends and myths in her bedside table. She’d marked several passages in the chapter about the green maiden of Suffolk.”
“She had to be interested in something, I guess.”
“Did your mother ever go with your father to visit your Aunt Winnie in Dunmow Parva?”
“She might have done. I don’t remember.”
“Did she study the Anglo-Saxon language?”
Lucy raised one eyebrow. “Now, that is a strange question, Kate.”
“The day she was murdered, the day she brought the húnpíng jar into the shop for consignment, she said something I didn’t understand at the time—it sounded like wagon bell. Now I believe it was an Anglo-Saxon phrase.”
“Mother always said she was rubbish at languages—barely passed her O levels in French. What did the phrase mean?”
“When I find out, I’ll let you know.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Lucy and I left Hapthorn Lodge before one o’clock. She headed back to the inn, in her own car, with the dolls and a few other items she’d packed. I headed for the shop.
Tomorrow, Monday, Lucy had another appointment at the solicitor’s office to go over the list of estate agents vying to sell Hapthorn Lodge. Tomorrow I had an appointment in Essex with Professor Markham. I winced inwardly, remembering my minor deception.
Minor? queried my inner conscience. I thought I caught the term slippery slope, but I brushed it away.
The professor had agreed to see me—that was the important thing. My job now was to find something to impress him.
Ivor said he owned a copy of the book written in the early twentieth century about the green maiden. I’d find it in the book room—but where? Ivor’s filing methods bore no resemblance to any known cataloguing system in the universe. He filed by theme—or whim. That meant the book about the green maiden might be shelved under “Local History” or “Myths” or “Ancient Britain” or some other designation known only to Ivor. Green women, maybe.
With no time to waste, I plunged in, setting up the library ladder. Starting with the top shelf in each section, I scanned the book titles one by one.
Lemons to Lemonade: Paint Spills on Chinese Export Porcelain
Cloning the Pharaohs: Another Jurassic Park?
The Poisons of the Ancient Sumerians
Elizabethan Mousetraps: Deciphering Clues in Shakespeare’s Plays
I was on the third stack of shelves when I found it: The Legend of the Green Maiden: Fact or Fiction? by Arthur A. R. Cockrill, Esq., B.Litt., MA, FSA.
Ivor had filed it under “Folklore.” I might have guessed.
A quick look-up on my phone told me FSA meant Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries of London. Was the Society still in existence?
Was Ivor a member?
Cockrill’s book was less than two hundred pages long. I turned to the title page.
Arthur A. R. Cockrill had been born in 1859. He’d published his slim volume by subscription in 1901, the year Queen Victoria died. Ivor’s copy was twenty-third in a run of one hundred.
I was about to check out the Table of Contents when the sky suddenly darkened. Needles of rain pricked the windows. Oh man. Just what we didn’t need.
Shoving the book in my carryall, I armed the security system and dodged the raindrops all the way home to Rose Cottage.
I found Vivian and Fergus in the sitting room, watching a documentary on the restoration of York Cathedral after the Second World War.
“Hello, dear. I was hoping you’d be back in time for supper.” Vivian lifted the remote. “I’ll just switch this off.”
“No—finish your program,” I said.
She clicked the TV off anyway. “We’d rather hear about Ivor. Come sit.”
I gave her the latest—that Ivor was taking longer than expected to wake up from the sedation. “The doctor says we shouldn’t worry.”
“Humph. That’s what they told Lady Barbara before her husband died.”
“Vivian.” I put up my hand to stop her. “Ivor isn’t going to die.”
I was afraid I’d offended her, but she appeared not to have heard me.
“I have news.” She lifted her eyebrows and gave me a knowing smile. “Remember when I told you Briony Peacock saw Henry Liu on his delivery bicycle the night of the May Fair?”
“Yes—at eight fifteen.”
“That’s right, but here’s the thing: after discussing it further with her husband, she’s changed her mind.”
“You mean it happened later after all?”
“No, it happened at eight fifteen all right—they were both clear on that point. But it wasn’t Henry they saw.”
“What?”
“Stephen got a better look at the man on the bike than she did. He insists it was the son, James, they saw. Not Henry at all.” Vivian gave a nod and settled back in her chair.
“Are they sure? The two men do look alike, especially from a distance.”
“Positive. They called the police to amend their statements.”
I stared at her, trying to decide what this meant. While the new information might clear up the discrepancy in Henry Liu’s time line, it didn’t explain how James could be on the delivery bicycle at eight fifteen and Henry on the same bike forty-five minutes later. There wouldn’t have been enough time for two trips, plus the time Henry said he spent with his wife in the kitchen. Something still didn’t add up.
Vivian clearly wanted to talk further about this new development, but pleading work, I headed to my room under the eaves. Bright and early the
