“A thin woman, mid-thirties, with dark hair.”
“What color eyes?”
“I don’t know—dark, anyway. Quite dark.”
“Exactly. And the woman who came into Ivor’s shop with the húnpíng jar—the one who said her name was Evelyn Villiers—had light eyes. Very light.” I sat back and watched him take this in.
“So who was she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is the real Evelyn Villiers?”
“I don’t know that either. That’s why we have to talk to Lucy. I’m afraid for her, Tom. I think we should check her room.”
The desk clerk was a young man with limp sandy hair and gold-rimmed eyeglasses. When we informed him we wanted a key for one of the guest rooms, he frowned theatrically. “I can’t allow that. Miss Wardle is a registered guest. She has a right to privacy.”
“Her real name is Lucy Villiers.” Tom flashed his warrant card. “We can get a court order, but we may not have time for that.”
“What’s she done?” the desk clerk demanded.
“Nothing as far as we know,” Tom said. “It’s important we talk to her—or find out where she is.”
The desk clerk insisted on escorting us to Lucy’s third-floor single. He opened the door with a passkey and stood aside as we entered the small room.
The curtains were drawn. The bed was made and the room tidied. Lucy’s clothes—she hadn’t brought much in her backpack and carryall—were hung neatly in the closet. In the bathroom, a red fabric toiletries kit had been stashed in the corner.
“When was the room cleaned?” Tom asked.
“We do changeovers first, so sometime between noon and”—he checked his watch—“now.”
“Did she sleep here last night?” I asked.
“Let me check.” He unclipped a wireless intercom from his belt and punched in a few numbers. “Was the small single on the third floor, east wing, used last night?” He waited a minute or so. “Say that again, please.” He switched the intercom to speaker.
The voice sounded a long way off. “That’s Aisha’s floor,” said a female voice. “She says the room hadn’t been slept in, so she gave it a quick once-over. Is everything all right, luv?”
“Fine. Thank you.” The desk clerk clipped the intercom back on his belt.
“She’s got her mobile with her,” Tom said.
“How do you know?” I asked.
He pointed at the charger cord, plugged into the lamp.
“Is her car still in the parking lot?” Tom asked the desk clerk.
“I’ll have someone check.”
Back in the lobby, the desk clerk consulted his records, found Lucy’s vehicle registration number, and used the intercom to alert security. The answer came quickly. Lucy’s car, an older model Ford Fiesta, was parked near the side entrance.
Tom and I looked at each other.
“What do you think?” he said.
“If Lucy decided to spend the night somewhere, I think she would have called me,” I said, feeling increasingly uneasy. “More to the point, she wouldn’t have taken off without her toiletry bag.”
“When was the last time you actually spoke to her?”
“Sunday night—just before I called you. She had an appointment Monday with Simon Crewe. I texted her to ask how it went. I never heard back, so I called her room. No answer. That night I left a message. I’ve been leaving them ever since.” My stomach tightened. “Tom, I should have said something last night.”
“You weren’t to know,” he said. “Look, I’ll contact the solicitor. He may know something.” He turned to the desk clerk. “We’ll need your CCTV footage. Both entrances and the parking lot from Monday morning until now. Your cameras are working, I assume.”
“Oh yes. We’re very careful about security. It’ll take time to go through all the footage.”
“Don’t bother.” He handed the man his card. “I’ll send someone.”
Tom called DS Cliffe on the way to his car.
“Cliffe says they’ve gotten a lead on the Australian nephew.” Tom fastened his seat belt. “He rented a van. They believe he’s been sleeping in it.”
“A van with white lettering?”
“No. I think there were two vans, both dark. One with white lettering.”
We pulled out of the parking area and headed for Long Barston.
“That photograph,” Tom said as he turned left onto the main road. “Can you tell where it was taken?”
I pulled it out of my handbag and examined it through the plastic baggie. “They’re standing in front of a church. Wait a minute—there’s a sign. No, I can’t read it.” I fished for my lighted magnifier. “Pull over. I’m getting carsick.”
Tom pulled into a turnout and parked.
I laid the photo on the middle console and held the lighted magnifier directly over it. “No, it’s no good. I can’t make it out. You try.” I handed the lighted magnifier to him.
“There’s mildew right where the name of the church should be.” He turned the photo so we could both see it. “It looks like some kind of a celebration—a wedding, maybe.”
“Not a wedding. Mr. Villiers wouldn’t have been wearing tweeds.”
“A celebration then. Look—you can see a string of flags and other people in the background. Maybe we can identify the church.”
“The church could be anywhere.”
“It’s not the church in Little Gosling, and it’s not the one in Long Barston.”
“Thank you for that.” I gave him a wry smile. “That’s two out of how many in rural England?”
“Laugh if you want.” He took another look. “Hold on—look at the edge of the photo. What do you think that is?”
I moved the magnifier. “Part of the church building. A tower.”
“Exactly. But look at the shadow—just there. The tower’s round. That’s unusual. There’s a society dedicated to English churches with round towers. Most are thirteenth century, and the majority are in East Anglia.”
“Tom—the church in Dunmow Parva has a round tower. I remember thinking it looked like a castle. That’s where Wallace and his sisters grew up. It’s just blocks from the house where Winnifred Villiers lived. Where better to attend a celebration than your hometown?”
“We need Lucy.”
“I think I know someone else who can help.”
Chapter Forty
On
