“Here’s the torch.” Vivian produced the small flashlight she used when taking Fergus for his nightly walkies. “When you get upstairs, flash twice. I’ll get the message.”
“What message—‘split up and meet up in Istanbul’? We’re not spies, Vivian.”
“So I’ll know you’re still alive.”
“Thanks for the encouragement.” I got out and closed the car door.
Rain pearled the thick ivy climbing the stone walls. I skirted the dense, overgrown shrubbery and found the side entrance. Using the flashlight and dialing my cell phone at the same time was awkward, but I managed to punch in Tom’s number.
He picked up instantly. “Everything all right?”
“I’m here. Hold on—I’m using a torch the size of a fountain pen.” I keyed in the code on the lock box. “I’m in now. Looking for the light switch.”
“Use the torch, Kate. We don’t want the neighbors reporting a burglar.”
“There aren’t any neighbors, but I take your point. Here goes.” I kept up a steady monologue which, in spite of my earlier protestations, felt comforting. “I’m on the staircase, going up. Okay—I’m in the upstairs hallway now. Entering the bedroom.”
I followed the narrow beam of light into the small room overlooking the front drive. To give Vivian a thrill, I flashed twice at the car below—the least I could do when she’d gotten out of bed to go with me. Grabbing the photograph off the wall, I headed for the stairway.
I was near the top of the landing when I sensed something.
A disturbance in the air. A faint trace of warmth.
Someone was there—or had been.
I clicked off the flashlight and held my breath.
“Kate? Is everything all right?” Tom’s voice cut through the silence.
“Shh.” I covered my cell phone with my hand.
I squinted into the darkness. “Hello? Is someone there?”
The swift movement of air took me by surprise. Someone slammed past me, sending me, my phone, and the flashlight flying.
A dark shape hurtled down the stairs as I lurched backward into a chest of drawers. A lamp crashed in an explosion of shattered glass.
“Kate? Kate?” I heard Tom’s voice from a distance.
I followed his voice, wincing in pain. I’d landed on my hip.
The phone lay near the wall—intact. “I’m okay. Someone was in the house. He’s gone.”
Wild barking in the distance reminded me that Vivian and Fergus were sitting ducks. Moving as fast as I could with my bruised hip, I raced down the stairs and out to the car.
“Thank goodness you’re safe.” Vivian’s round face was pale. Fergus was pawing at the window.
“What did you see?” I held the phone between us so Tom could listen in.
“A man. Dark clothing—a hoodie, I think. Ran off in that direction.” She pointed north toward the village.
“At least I got the framed photograph,” I said into the phone. “I’ll go back and lock the house.”
“Leave it. Just get out of there. Can you drive?”
“Of course.” I didn’t tell him my hands were shaking.
“Drive carefully,” he said. “Don’t stop. I’ll meet you at Rose Cottage in twenty minutes.”
Tom paced back and forth between Vivian’s kitchen and the parlor, his long strides turning her snug cottage into a child’s playhouse. He slid his phone into his jacket pocket. “Cliffe and Weldon are at Hapthorn now.”
I was still in my damp jeans and sweater.
Vivian had changed into her gray wool robe and slippers. She poured me a cup of tea. “When we saw that man running from the house, we thought he’d killed you.”
Fergus made a low rumble of agreement.
“I don’t think he had any intention of hurting me,” I said. “He just wanted to escape.”
“They found a smashed window on the lower level at the rear of the house.” Tom sat next to me at the table. “Looks like someone took up residence in one of the spare bedrooms. Did you see any evidence when you were there with Lucy?”
“No, but we didn’t check all the rooms. I’ll call Lucy in the morning. Until they find him, she shouldn’t go there alone.” I took a sip of tea. “If she had reservations about selling the place before, she won’t now.”
The framed photograph lay on the table in front of us.
Vivian peered at it through the magnifying glass she’d found in a kitchen drawer. “It’s just an ordinary old cottage by a river. The photo was taken a good while ago—that’s obvious.”
“It’s a sepia print,” I said, “which means the original was probably taken sometime before the First World War.”
Tom turned the frame over, bent back the metal prongs, and pulled out the stiff cardboard. He removed the photo and handed it to me. “Spot on with the date.”
Written on the back of the thick card stock were the words River’s Edge Cottage, 1912.
“That’s it?” Vivian said. “No family name or location?”
“Kate, what is it?” Tom bent to look at me.
“River’s Edge Cottage.” I’d been holding my breath, and my voice came out high-pitched. “Sheila Parker, Winnifred Villiers’s neighbor in Dunmow Parva, has that same name on her house.”
“Lots of houses are probably called River’s Edge.”
“When there’s no river within fifteen miles?” Something dark leaped up in my brain. “I know it’s a legend, Tom, but one version of the green maiden story says she was banished to a cottage along the River Stour in Essex. In 1901, villagers in Dunmow Parva claimed her descendants still lived in the area.”
“There’s probably a logical explanation,” Tom said. “Ask Sheila Parker.”
“Not tonight,” Vivian said. “It’s nearly midnight.”
I was beginning to wonder if the merry widow of Dunmow Parva had been lying to me. “Sheila Parker has the name River’s Edge Cottage on her house, and Evelyn Villiers had a photograph of a cottage with the same name over her bed. Yet Sheila claimed they’d never met.” I folded my arms, daring Tom to explain it away.
“It’s curious, I admit,” he said, “but what does it have to do with Evelyn Villiers’s death and the theft of the húnpíng?”
“All right, I don’t know. We’re obviously missing something.”
“Maybe
