“On the floor? Kate, I thought you said you hid it.”
“Obviously not well enough.” I turned to Henry. “If the theft wasn’t planned, where did James get the white petal?”
“White petal?” Henry looked confused for a moment, which surprised me. I’d expected him to flinch.
“Someone left a white petal on the stockroom floor,” Tom said.
Henry put a hand to his forehead. “The flowers. That night Penny told James she was expecting a child. She wanted to return to China. They’d been having arguments. She wasn’t happy here, working under my wife’s thumb. James was upset. He stormed out of the tent, said he had to think. By the time Penny called about the shrimp rolls, he’d calmed down. He’d been walking near Blackwater Lake. He wanted to bring her flowers as an apology, so he took off his shoes, waded in, and gathered a bouquet of water lilies. He was still holding them when I got there.” We must have looked scandalized because his mouth hardened. “I realize it’s against the law.”
The legality of picking wild flowers was the last thing on our minds. Tom and I sat there, stunned. We’d all taken it for granted that the theft and the murder were committed by the same person—one of those false assumptions my mother had talked about.
I felt cold. If the theft and the murder were committed by two separate people, that meant the murderer was still out there. And Lucy wasn’t answering my messages.
Tom rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“And neither you nor your son thought this information was important enough to mention to the police?” His tone was clipped. “You’ve been wasting police time, Mr. Liu—and possibly allowing a murderer to go free.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Did James see anything that might be helpful?”
“He saw a van. Black, he thought, with a white logo on the side.”
Tom closed his eyes and rapped the table. He was clearly struggling.
“What will happen to me?” Henry Liu asked.
“That’s up to the prosecutor. Go home, get some sleep. Tomorrow DS Cliffe will arrange for you to be driven to the police station in Bury. There will have to be a formal interview.”
Henry left with DS Cliffe.
Tom began pacing.
“What do you think?” I asked him. “Was it Patrick, the Australian nephew, in a rented van?”
“Reasonable,” he said. “Except the elusive Patrick Allen happens to have an alibi for the time of the murder.”
“An alibi?”
“He was in police custody that whole weekend.”
“What?”
“Drunk and disorderly. The local police let him go with a warning.”
“When did you find that out?”
“This morning. We’re trying to locate the lad now. He couldn’t have killed his aunt, but he may know who did.”
“Tom.” I took a step toward him. “Lucy isn’t returning my messages, any of them.”
“Well, keep trying.” Tom let out a defeated breath. “Eacles is going to love this.”
I pictured Eacles’ piggy eyes and his meaty slab of a face. “I promised him I’d have the inventory report on his desk by Thursday. I’m going to have to return to Hapthorn tomorrow.”
“Fine. I’ll have PC Weldon get in contact.” He shut his eyes and ran a finger along one eyebrow.
His face was so familiar to me—the tiny scar on his cheek, the long bridge of his nose, the high cheekbones and the line of his mouth. Now there were bruise-like shadows under his eyes, and the lines on his forehead and around his mouth had deepened.
I forced myself to blink. “You’ll find him, Tom. You will.”
I held out my arms, and he reached for me, pulling me close.
He rested his cheek against my hair. “We’re missing something.”
I’d said the very same thing, but was it true?
Were we missing something—or was there something else we thought we knew that wasn’t so?
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Wednesday, May 22
PC Anne Weldon picked me up in her Vauxhall Astra. “The rain just won’t give over,” she said. “The weather presenter said there’s a bubble of low pressure stuck right over Suffolk.”
The rain wasn’t my biggest worry. I’d tried Lucy three more times that morning. Still no answer. Had I made her angry in some way? Hurt her feelings?
The roads on the way to Little Gosling were wet but passable—until we reached the final leg of the trip. It seemed Hollow Lane had more rain-filled potholes than road surface, and Anne struggled to maneuver her small car around the rough patches. If a tire went in, we’d never get the car out on our own.
“We’ve had 15 centimeters of rain in the last twenty-four hours,” Anne said, “The river’s already two meters above flood stage, and a surge is expected tonight. The authorities are warning those in low-lying areas to turn off gas and electricity, and move their families, pets, and valuables to higher ground.”
I thought of the gorgeous day I’d met Evelyn Villiers. Everything had seemed so idyllic then.
“Ready?” she asked when we finally parked outside Hapthorn Lodge.
We opened our umbrellas and ran for the side entrance. I was grateful I’d bought my wellies. At least my feet were dry.
When she unlocked the house, the stench of mildew hit us like a wall of water.
“Ew.” I waved my hand in front of my nose. “That smell is getting worse. I’m sure breathing it isn’t healthy. If Lucy wants to sell Hapthorn, she’s going to have to do something about it soon.”
“Apparently there’s mold growing everywhere in the cellar,” Anne said. “And the rear wall—toward the river—has huge damp patches eating away the mortar. Rats have moved in.”
I shuddered. And probably spiders. I hate spiders. “At least we won’t be here long.”
Anne had promised to pick up her baby, Maddie, from the childminder before two, and I needed to get to the hospital to see Ivor.
“Look at the river now,” she said, beckoning me to the window.
At least half the back garden was underwater, and the river had yet to crest.
I got to work. All the antiques and artwork listed
