“Not their eye color, they don’t. Look—this woman has dark eyes like Lucy. The woman I met definitely had pale eyes—blue or gray.”
Anne whipped out her phone. “I’m calling the station.”
“And I’ll call Lucy. She was there.”
I dialed Lucy’s cell phone. Still no answer. A feeling of dread closed around my heart.
Anne had someone on the line—I didn’t know who. She held the phone against her shoulder. “When was the last time you actually spoke to Lucy in person?”
“Sunday night. I’ve left messages and texts, but I can’t be sure she got them.”
While Anne relayed this information, I phoned Tom. He didn’t answer either, so I punched out a text.
The dead woman wasn’t Evelyn Villiers. Lucy isn’t answering her phone. Meet me at the Premier Inn ASAP.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
PC Anne Weldon’s panda car flew over the wet Suffolk roads. She even knew a few shortcuts, skirting sections where the road was awash. Everywhere, the rainwater was moving—flowing, streaming, rushing to find its level.
“Hang on,” she said, swerving to avoid a section where the road surface had fallen away. “Are you sure it’s all right if I drop you at the inn? I’m expected at the childminder in less than forty minutes.”
“No problem. If Tom’s hung up for some reason, I’ll call Vivian.” I realized instantly that wasn’t going to happen. No way would I ask Vivian to drive in this storm.
We entered Long Barston from the northwest, turning south at the green. Tea-colored water sluiced down the High Street toward the swollen river. I hoped the flood fence at The Suffolk Rose was working.
“Is it safe to drive?” I asked, picturing TV shots of cars swept away by rising waters.
“It’s not deep enough here to cause a problem,” she said. “The water’s heading for the river. We’re turning off before the bridge.”
“Anne—look.” A crowd had gathered around The Finchley Arms. Some were watching. Others were relaying buckets, hand to hand, from inside the pub toward the street.
“The cellar must be flooding,” Anne said.
A truck pulling some kind of motorized pump had arrived. Gavin Collier from The Three Magpies was helping the driver uncoil a heavy plastic hose.
We turned off toward Sudbury. Rain streamed down the windscreen. Even with the wipers on the fastest speed, Anne had to lean forward to see the road.
“When we get there, take my umbrella,” she said. “It’s on the floor of the back seat.”
“No—you’ll need it for Maddie. I have a hood, and Tom will have an umbrella.
The road was clear, but the fields on either side were swamped.
“It’s a good job you checked the whole album,” Anne said. “I was ready to throw it in the bin with the spoiled food.”
“How am I going to break the news to Lucy? How do you tell someone the woman claiming to be her mother was someone else?”
“I understand about the eye color,” Anne said. “The real Evelyn Villiers had dark eyes. The woman in the shop had light. But didn’t the housekeeper, Mrs. Wright, identify the body as Mrs. Villiers?”
“Yes, but she’d only worked at Hapthorn Lodge for a short time. No one we’ve talked to actually knew the real Mrs. Villiers from eighteen years ago. Not even her solicitor.”
“Except Ertha Green,” Anne said.
“True. Ertha could tell us the woman in the photo is Evelyn Villiers—we know that already. Too bad I didn’t snap a photo of the imposter when I had the chance.”
“And now the body has been cremated.”
“Do undertakers take photographs before cremation?”
“I don’t know.” Anne slowed down to take a curve. “Do you think Lucy will know who pretended to be her mother?”
“I hope so, but I think she’s going to be more interested in what happened to her mother.”
The photograph, encased in a plastic baggie, was in my handbag.
My cell phone rang. Tom—thank goodness.
“I just arrived at the Premier Inn. What’s all this about?”
“I’ll tell you when I get there.” I looked at Anne, who flashed five fingers twice.
“Be there in ten minutes. Try to find Lucy. See you soon.”
I’d forgotten about Ivor. Feeling guilty, I called the hospital and was told they’d made arrangements to transfer him back to The Willows on Thursday. “He can have his old room back then,” said the nurse, “and it gives us another day to make sure he’s stable. He’s asking for you, dear.”
“Tell him I have news about the húnpíng jar.”
“The hunting jar?”
“Hún-píng. He’ll know what that means. And tell him I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I’d no sooner hung up than my phone rang again. This time it was my mother.
“Mom, you’ll never believe what we—”
“Kate, just listen.” Something in the tone of her voice made me sit up. She never interrupted. “It’s James.” I heard her breath catch.
“What is it? What’s happened?”
“He’s had a heart attack. He was just admitted to the hospital in Minocqua.”
“Oh no—Mom, I’m so sorry. How is he?”
“We don’t know yet. It’s bad.” Her breath was coming fast. They said at his age—” She didn’t finish the sentence. I heard a sob. “What am I going to do? I can’t lose him now, Kate. I just can’t.”
Tom was waiting for me in the lobby of the Premier Inn.
“Lucy’s not in her room, and she isn’t answering her mobile. The desk clerk hasn’t seen her—which doesn’t tell us much because she would normally use the side entrance to come and go. It’s nearer the elevator.” He reached out to unzip my jacket. “Take this wet thing off. What do you mean the dead woman wasn’t Evelyn Villiers?”
“I have something to show you,” I said. “Can we find a place to sit?”
We found chairs near a Costa Coffee kiosk.
I handed him the photo. “The Villiers family, taken in 1994. Lucy was eight or nine. That’s her father,” I pointed out the tall, well-built man in the tweed sports jacket. “And her mother. Notice anything strange?”
Tom peered at the photograph. “It’s not a clear image.”
“We’re lucky to have an image at all.” I told him about the pile
