“No wonder Emily Wardle pretended to be a recluse all those years,” he said. “No wonder she fired Ertha and hired housekeepers new to the village.”
“I had all the evidence—I just didn’t make the connections. The real Evelyn Villiers wasn’t religious; the fake one had a New Testament by her bed. The real Evelyn Villiers didn’t like living so close to the river; the fake one loved the river.” I clicked my seat belt. “I was looking for a connection between Emily Wardle and Evelyn Villiers based on the assumption they were two separate people. All the time, they were the same person.”
Tom turned the key and started the engine. “I’m betting she left Hapthorn whenever she wanted to—just not as Evelyn Villiers.”
“She couldn’t allow anyone who’d known the real Evelyn Villiers to see her or hear her voice—including her solicitor—so she communicated by text. Oh!” A new thought occurred to me. “The letters she left for Lucy and Ertha Green were typed. That seemed so cold, Tom, but they of all people would have recognized her handwriting.”
His mobile rang.
“Mallory.” He listened, then rang off.
“That was Cliffe. The CCTV footage shows Lucy getting into a dark blue van with white printing on the side—Oakley’s Barn.”
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
Tom slammed the gearshift forward. “Now all we have to figure out is whether Lucy Villiers is a victim or an accomplice.”
Chapter Forty-One
The tithe barn was locked up tight. A sign on the door announced that auctions were held every two weeks on Mondays and Tuesdays. Enquiries should be directed to either Peter Oakley or Martin Ingram. I jotted down the contact information.
We found Nigel and Peter Oakley in the warehouse.
“Mrs. Hamilton, how lovely to see you.” Nigel wiped his hands on his jeans and came to meet us. His friendly, open face was pink from exertion. “We received a new consignment. Checking things in, cleaning them up.”
Peter was rubbing down a rosewood Pembroke table. He glanced up briefly and went back to his work. He wasn’t in one of his ebullient moods.
“Nigel, this is Tom Mallory.”
“Pleasure to meet you at last.” Nigel held out his hand. “Shall I call you Inspector?”
“Tom is fine. Is Martin Ingram here today?”
“I’m afraid not.” Nigel turned toward his son. “Where’s Martin today?”
Peter straightened up. “In-house appraisals.”
Nigel frowned. “What’s this all about? Is there a problem?”
“We need to get in touch,” Tom said. “Did he take one of the Oakley vehicles?”
“I believe he did.” Nigel looked at his son again. “But I’m not sure—”
Peter threw down his rag. “Why all the questions? Martin meets potential clients in their homes by appointment, all right? He looks over what they have to sell, and if it fits our stock, he puts the item in the back of the van and goes on to the next location.” He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops as if daring us to question him further.
Why is he so belligerent?
Tom asked, “Do you have a list of the clients he was planning to visit today?”
“We don’t keep track.” Peter’s lip curled. “Martin leaves. He comes back with antiques to sell.”
“That’s right.” Nigel laughed. “We call him the Scarlett Pimpernel. We never know what he’s up to until—” He closed his mouth, the seriousness of Tom’s expression sinking in.
“When do you expect him back?” Tom asked.
“When we see him.” Peter returned to his task.
The tips of Nigel’s ears were turning red. “Inspector, it would help if you’d tell us what this is all about.”
“A woman is missing. She was seen getting into an Oakley’s van Monday evening. She hasn’t been seen since.”
“That doesn’t sound right.” The corners of Nigel’s mouth turned down. “Where was this?”
“There’s no mistake,” Tom said, ignoring the question. “It was caught on CCTV footage.”
Nigel swallowed hard. “Martin can be a bit of a lad, I’ll admit, but he’s no kidnapper.”
“No one said anything about kidnapping,” Tom said smoothly, “but we need to find her.”
Nigel got out his phone and punched a few numbers.
We waited.
“He’s not answering his mobile.” Nigel glanced at his son. “Peter—text him. Tell him to call in immediately.”
Peter scowled but did as his father asked.
“Does Martin have a computer?” Tom asked.
“He’ll have his laptop with him, but all business communication is synced with our main computer in the office. I insist upon it.”
“I’d like to see the computer.”
“Is that necessary, Inspector?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Nigel set his jaw. “In that case, you’d better come this way. Peter, you too.”
Peter looked like he was about to protest but thought better of it.
Nigel led the way into a small office—not the ultrachic space in the tithe barn, but a real working office with metal desks and files. He powered up a desktop computer connected to a flat monitor and a keyboard. “Peter, what’s Martin’s password?”
“How would I know?” Peter looked like a schoolboy caught writing test answers on his forearm. “Anyway, Martin doesn’t keep much on the computer—not the important stuff anyway.”
“What?” Nigel threw up his hands. “Everything goes into the main data bank. You both know that.”
“What’s the ‘important stuff’?” Tom asked.
“You know—where he gets the merch.” Peter was starting to sweat. He wiped his face with the back of his arm. “List of clients, that kind of thing.”
“And where does he keep that information?”
“Personal files.” Peter licked his lips and ran a hand through his expensively layered blond hair.
“And where are they?”
“With him, I suppose. On his laptop.”
Tom tapped on the keyboard and a password screen appeared.
Peter leapt forward. “Hey—you need a search warrant for that. I know our rights.”
“Peter.” Nigel’s voice held a warning. “If you know something, you’d better say so—now, son.”
Peter caught his father’s eye and seemed to deflate. “Look—all I know is he was talking about a source. Someone had died, and—” He stopped and swallowed.
“And?”
“And he said he could talk his way in.”
“What does that mean?”
“You know—schmooze, flirt.”
“Meaning a woman.”
“Suppose so.”
“Any names?”
“No, man.” Peter blinked and rubbed at the corner of his eye. “Martin never
