I’m sure the cat still held me responsible for an unwarranted usurpation. He prowled around, fixing me with one malevolent green eye.
The professor pulled a book free, causing the entire row of red-bound volumes to collapse. Several landed on the floor with a thud, sending the cat flying into the air in a yowling cloud of fur.
“It’s not here.” He climbed down, muttering, “Strange.”
“Professor Markham,” I said, reminding him I was present.
He scowled at me. “Can’t you see I’m busy, woman?”
“I’m busy too,” I said, raising my voice. “I’ve come all the way from Suffolk to give you information. The least you can do is allow me a few moments of your time.”
“What for?”
“Translation. Anglo-Saxon.”
He huffed. “Oh, very well. Make it snappy.”
“Please look at these words and tell me what they mean.” I pulled a paper from my handbag and handed it to him. I’d copied the entire sentence from The Green Maiden pub.
Wægn bel-æwung cópenere brand-hǽrm min sefa.
“What does this say in modern English?” I asked.
He gave it a brief glance. “It’s nonsense.”
“It’s painted on one of the beams at The Green Maiden in Dunmow Parva.”
“Well, that explains it, then,” he said as if any fool would have known. “This was written in the sixties by the history teacher at the comprehensive school. The idiot cobbled the words together from an Old English dictionary. “
“They have to mean something.” I folded my arms and held my ground. “Just give me a rough idea.”
He tsked and bent his head over the paper. “Wægn bel-æwung—‘treachery’ or ‘betrayal.’”
I swallowed hard.
“Cópenere is ‘lover,’ or sometimes ‘the one I love.’”
He handed me the paper.
I pushed it back. “And the rest, please?”
“If you insist,” he growled. “Brand-hærm means ‘torch’ or possibly ‘burning sword.’ Min sefa, ‘my heart.’ The fool’s left out the verbs. You might say, ‘The betrayal of a lover is a flaming sword in my heart.”
Betrayal—again. I did the mental version of a head slap. This is the last time I will ever listen to an ancient—
Realizing the absurdity of my thought, I shut it down.
Professor Markham clambered over me. “Perhaps I missed it.” He was on his knees, surrounded by books—a modern-day Robinson Crusoe, shipwrecked on an island of research materials.
I stopped at the door. “If you locate River’s Edge Cottage, will you let me know?”
He mumbled something under his breath, but I don’t think he was talking to me.
Back in the car, I dialed Lucy’s cell phone. No answer.
“You’re telling me Lucy has come back from the dead? Well, I never.”
Sheila Parker dropped two sugar cubes into a purple mug and stirred. “And to think poor Winnie died without ever knowing the girl was alive and well.” She passed the glass sugar bowl to me. “If she comes round here, I’ll give her what for. Winnie faded away with worry.”
“Lucy was a child, Sheila. She’d lost her father. Then she was rejected by her mother and abandoned by her fiancé.”
Sheila shot me a guilty look. “And here’s me, blaming the girl, when I did the same. Ran away at sixteen. Lucky I found my Lenny before the hoolies got their paws on me.” She gave a dreamy smile. “Never had eyes for no one but me, Lenny. Good provider too—when he was around.”
“Sheila,” I said, turning the conversation back to the subject at hand. “I’d like to ask you a few questions—just to clear things up. It won’t take long.”
“I’m not talking to the police.” She crossed her arms.
“You don’t have to.” I should have added at least not yet, but I didn’t want to raise any alarms. “You have a lovely old name plaque outside. It looks Victorian—maybe older.”
“Silly, I know, giving myself airs. But ever since I was a child, I dreamed about living in a house with a name.” She held her mug with both hands and took a sip.
“Where did you come up with the name River’s Edge Cottage?”
“I didn’t steal the plaque, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“What do you mean?”
“Did the police send you?” She narrowed her eyes. “If they think they can do me for theft, it’s too long ago. I know the law.”
“This has nothing to do with theft.”
“Besides, everyone was helping themselves, weren’t they?”
“Helping themselves to what? When?”
“When Mrs. Wardle moved out. I told you—she took her clothes and some personal things. Left most of her furniture behind—not that it was worth anything. She’d been on the dole long as I knew her. The neighbors cleaned the place out. Only thing I took was the plaque, I swear. I thought it was pretty.”
“It is pretty. Did she ever talk about the name, River’s Edge Cottage?”
“No, but I got the impression it had sentimental value—that’s why I was surprised she left it behind. I told myself I was saving it for her—in case she ever came back.”
“Weren’t you worried about her?”
“I would have been, except that son of hers came and packed up a few boxes, so we knew she’d moved away for good.”
“Colin came back? When was that?”
“Must have been around the time of the Villiers’ scandal—or shortly after. Caught sight of him one night, moving the boxes out.”
“Did Lucy know?”
“I shouldn’t think so.” Her face clouded. “Should I have said something to Winnie?”
“I’m sure it wouldn’t have made any difference. Was there a connection between the Villiers and the Wardles? Were they distant relatives or something?”
Sheila shook her head. “Winnie never mentioned a connection with the Wardles—and she would have done, since they lived just down the street.”
“Did Winnie tell you much about her family?”
“She and Wallace grew up in Dunmow Parva. They had an older sister, but she moved away. Their mother worked in a bakery, I think. Not sure about their father.”
I thought again about Winnie, living in a two-up two-down on Lark Crescent while her brother spent a fortune on fine art and antiques and indulged a wife with a taste for fine jewelry. Had Winnie been resentful? What about the sister in Australia and her
