“Kate—” Tom rubbed the back of his neck. “Are you trying to say the Wardles are descended from the green maiden?”
“No, I’m not. Most people have a hard enough time tracing their family back three or four generations, much less to the eleventh century. But I’ve given this a lot of thought. Proving something is true isn’t nearly as important—or as powerful—as believing it is. Take the Loch Ness monster. For all the photographs, spurious and otherwise, for all the underwater explorations and DNA testing, no one has produced an iota of actual physical evidence that a large, prehistoric creature lurks in the loch’s murky depths. Most people don’t care. If they want to believe it, they will. Same thing for the green maiden. Did she exist—even in some less spectacular form than the legends suggest? Do her descendants still live in Dunmow Parva? The important thing is an emotional attachment to the myth. What I want to know is what emotional attachment both Mrs. Wardle and Evelyn Villiers had to the legend. Sheila swears they weren’t related. I don’t even think they knew each other.” I put my hands around the warm bowl of soup.
“You’re saying Evelyn Villiers’s belief in the green maiden played a part in her death.”
“I can’t say that yet, but as she was dying, she specifically sought out the actress playing the green maiden. That has to mean something. If we can find the missing connection between the two women, we’ll be on the way to solving her murder. I texted Lucy, but she hasn’t answered yet.”
“You may be right.” Tom shook his head at a server who asked if we needed something else. “I have news. Wallace Villiers’s nephew—his name is Patrick Allen—left the Outback almond farm a month ago and bought an airplane ticket for London Heathrow. Immigration says he arrived in April, two and a half weeks before Evelyn Villiers’s death.”
“He could be the intruder at Hapthorn last night.”
“More to the point, he could be the killer—and if he’s killed once, he won’t hesitate to do it again.”
“Why would he murder his aunt?”
“For the inheritance. If he knew about Lucy’s disappearance—and he probably did—he might have figured he was next in line for the Villiers’ fortune.”
“I thought that too,” I admitted. “But still, why kill her, and why now?”
“I can’t answer the last part. Maybe he suddenly needed money. Maybe he got sick of working in the Outback. The point is, if he contacted his aunt and she sent him packing, he might have lost his temper. It happens all the time, Kate.”
“So what were they doing in Ivor’s shop?”
“If he knew about the húnpíng and didn’t find it at the house, he could have forced her to show him where it was.”
“You think Evelyn was trying to sell the art collection before her nephew could steal it? That makes sense. Maybe he took the missing jewelry too.”
“If he did, he’s holding onto it. None of the local jewelers or pawn shops have been offered a collection of jewelry lately. We checked.”
I refrained from pointing out that a savvy thief would never unload his takings locally. On the other hand, how would a chap from Down Under, squatting in an abandoned house, know where to sell expensive jewelry?
“The point is,” Tom said, “Lucy may be in danger. Let me know when she contacts you.”
“Did you ever talk to the solicitor, Simon Crewe, about what happened the day of the inquest?”
“He confirmed Lucy’s story. According to old Mr. Crewe, Simon’s father, Colin Wardle tried to give Evelyn Villiers a piece of paper. She pushed him away—in fact there was a bit of a tussle. The elder Crewe separated them, but Wardle managed to stuff the note in her handbag.”
“An apology?”
“He never knew. She refused to talk about it.”
“I’m getting a headache. Where does all this lead?”
“Nowhere so far, but I’d better come up with something soon or Eacles will have my guts for garters.”
I laughed. “Guts for garters? That’s something Vivian would say.”
Tom stood. “That’s right—laugh at me. Come on. I’ve been sitting too long, and people are waiting for tables.”
Reclaiming our coats, we headed out into the rain.
I held his arm under the umbrella, matching his steps. “How’s your injured constable?”
“Off duty for eight weeks. Broke his leg in three places.”
“How did it happen?”
“The on-site manager of a lockup near Ipswich alerted us to the possibility of stolen goods—trucks coming and going in the middle of the night. Cliffe and the PC caught two lads loading a van. As soon as they realized they’d been spotted, they jumped in the van and took off. Cliffe gave chase. He thought he had them at the roundabout west of town, but one of them bolted, headed on foot for an open field. The PC followed—fell into a burrow.”
“Ouch. What happened to the van?”
“Nearly caused a smash-up in the roundabout, but the driver got away too. Fortunately Cliffe got the plate number. The van belongs to a vehicle hire company. They’re checking their records, but it won’t do any good. Criminals never use their real names. The best we can hope for is CCTV footage.”
“Good luck.”
“Just what we need.”
The streets were nearly empty. The sky was leaden. A gust of wind caught Tom’s umbrella, threatening to turn it inside out.
“Have you learned anything about The White Lotus Society?”
“None of the dealers in London will talk about it,” Tom said, struggling to keep the umbrella over our heads. “The Chinese authorities haven’t responded.”
“It does seem unlikely that a local businessman like Henry Liu would suddenly decide to steal a valuable Chinese húnpíng. Besides, there’s no evidence he even knew Evelyn Villiers.”
We’d reached the small parking lot on
