“An ideal witness, then.” Tom flicked me a smile.
Flooding on the roads and a few necessary detours added fifteen minutes to a trip that should have taken no longer than half an hour. It was four o’clock when we pulled up to the Church of the Blessed Virgin.
I held out the photograph. “That’s the church, all right. No question.”
In the churchyard beyond us, a clutch of black umbrellas bobbed around an open grave.
We found the exact spot where the photograph had been taken—the yew-lined walk leading to the church entrance. The pollarded trees had filled out since the day the Villiers family had posed for the photographer.
I slipped the photograph back into the plastic sleeve. “Lark Court is just around the corner. Park at the end of the street.”
“Here, take this.” Tom reached in the back for his umbrella and handed it to me.
I dashed across the street, trying to avoid the puddles, but my shoes were soaked by the time I reached Sheila Parker’s door. She answered on the first knock.
“Didn’t expect to see you again so soon, luv. Come in out of the deluge.” Sheila wore a long brocade caftan with a gold chain around her neck and bangles at her wrists. “Good timing ’n’ all. Neighbor from down the street just left. Lost his wife last year, poor man. He likes a bit of company. Would you care for some rhubarb crumble? From my own garden.”
“Sounds heavenly, but I’m in a bit of a rush today—trying to place a photograph taken some years ago.” I removed the photo from the plastic baggie. “I’m hoping you might recognize the people.”
Sheila put on her glasses. “I recognize the photo, of course. Oh my—Wallace Villiers was a good-looking man, wasn’t he? And little Lucy. I suppose that’s her mother, poor thing.”
“Lucy’s the reason I’m here. We don’t know where she is.”
“Scarpered again?”
“Not this time. We think she may be in trouble. Was this a village fête?”
“Nine hundredth anniversary celebration—July of 1994. Grand day. I remember it well.”
“Do you recognize any of the other people?”
She shook her head. “You can’t see them properly, can you? I have some photos of my own. Would that help?”
Sheila trotted off and returned moments later with a photograph album.
She turned to the first page. “That’s my Len—there.” The young Lenny Parker had been a good-looking young man with a suave, super-gelled haircut and an impressive tattoo on his left forearm. She flipped pages. “Here we go—June of ninety-four.” She handed me the album.
The photos were the usual kind—meant to record an event, with no attempt at artistry. Lenny must have been the photographer because most shots were of a young woman with bright red hair and freckles. “How old were you?” I asked her.
“Twenty. Bun in the oven. Len bought me a candy floss, and I was sick all over his shoes.” She sighed dreamily.
“Do you have a photo of Winnie?”
“Didn’t know her then, did I?” She took the album. “My, I haven’t looked at these in donkey’s years.” She studied the photos. “Wait a tic—that’s Winnie, right there. And Wallace beside her.”
Winnifred and Evelyn Villiers stood under a blue-and-white-striped awning. Evelyn was bending over a table, studying a row of necklaces. Winnie stood next to her sister-in-law, looking bored. Wallace was a step or two behind them. He was glancing over his left shoulder at a young woman and a boy.
“Who’s that woman, the one Wallace is looking at?”
Sheila peered closer. “Oh my. That’s Emily Wardle—the one I told you about, remember? Colin’s mother.”
Even in a snapshot, Emily Wardle’s beauty was striking. She was so slim a stiff breeze might have toppled her. Her hair was glossy black, her eyes light—gray or silver-blue. There was something familiar about her—the shape of her face, the way she held her head and shoulders.
“Do you mind?” I held my lighted magnifier over the image.
Around the woman’s neck was a heart-shaped locket.
I stopped breathing. The face I saw was Evelyn Villiers—my Evelyn Villiers, the woman who came into Ivor’s shop to sell the húnpíng.
“—always said her looks would get her in trouble.” Sheila was still speaking. “Claimed her husband was killed in the Falklands, but why didn’t she take his name, I ask you?”
“Is that Colin she’s holding onto?”
“Got his mum’s looks, all right. Dark hair—and oh, those eyes. Like fairy pools, they were. You could almost fall in—and many did, more’s the pity.”
I trained the lens on the child. He looked to be around eleven or twelve, half twisting away from his mother.
Oh, there was no mistaking those blue eyes.
“Could I borrow the photograph?” I asked. “I’ll return it as soon as I have a copy made.”
“Sure, but”—Sheila frowned—“what do you want with an old photograph?”
“It might help us find Lucy.”
Tucking the photo inside my jacket, I flew out of Sheila’s house, neglecting to raise the umbrella. By the time I got to the car, I was soaked—and seriously out of breath. “Tom—” I tossed the umbrella in the back and shoved Sheila’s photograph at him. “Look at the woman holding the boy’s hand.” I made an effort to slow my breathing. “That’s Emily Wardle and her son, Colin.”
“Okay, but—”
“Except they’re not. I mean, they are, but—” I stabbed at the photo, catching my breath. “That’s the woman who told me her name was Evelyn Villiers. And Colin is now calling himself Martin Ingram, the antiques expert who works with Nigel and Peter Oakley at the Barn.”
Tom turned in his seat to face me. His eyes hardened. “You’re saying Colin Wardle installed his mother at Hapthorn as Evelyn Villiers. What happened to the real Evelyn Villiers?”
“Exactly.”
The look on Tom’s face could have stripped paint. “Bloody hell.”
“Oh, Tom—I should have picked up on it when Lucy told me she’d inherited her
