The museum’s storage facility was on the second floor, directly above Julia Kelly’s workroom. It was a large, well-lit space with floor-to-ceiling metal shelving that held, I imagined, items not currently on display. I remembered the local history museum on the Isle of Glenroth, the small Hebridean island where Tom and I met. There, musty treasures had been mashed tooth-to-jowl with thrift-shop rejects and the detritus of home-clearance auctions. At the Museum of Devon Life, everything was in perfect order—a testimony to Hawksworthy’s high standards or Isla’s administrative skills? Maybe both.
“I’ve laid everything out for you,” Isla said.
A number of objects, fewer than a dozen, rested on a long, laminate-top table. Among them were several small pieces of jewelry and other trinkets, a colorful teapot, a lovely carved wooden box, and an unframed photograph.
My eyes went first to the photograph. It was small, about two and a half by four inches—one of the so-called cartes de visite, the inexpensive mass-produced photo cards that dominated Victorian photography. The image showed a group of young girls, perhaps seven or eight years old, sitting outside a vine-covered building. Each held a large cushion from which hung a number of bobbins. The photograph was titled A Group of Young Devonshire Lace Workers. I turned it over. No names or location. If Nancy Thorne was among them, we’d probably never know.
“We intend to use the photo in our lace exhibit,” Isla said, “especially if we can identify the particular lace school pictured. Many Devon villages had lace schools in the nineteenth century. The building may be gone, but someone may remember.”
“Too bad someone didn’t write the girls’ names on the back.” The lace-school photograph, found with the bloodstained dress, suggested the first real connection with Nancy Thorne. Psychologists call it synchronicity, the theory that seemingly unrelated but simultaneously occurring events are connected. My mother had a simpler explanation: When you see things together, there’s always a reason. Truthfully, it wasn’t much of a lead. Of course, there were always the census records. They’d provide basic information about Nancy Thorne—her age, place of birth, the names of her parents and siblings, her occupation.
“I don’t know much about lacemaking,” I said, “except what you told me at the gala. What were the cushions used for?”
“Honiton lace is really a type of weaving,” Isla said. “Only hobbyists attempt it today. It’s far too complicated and time-consuming to be commercially profitable. Individual motifs were created on pins inserted through a pattern into the cushions you see in the photo, which were typically stuffed with barley straw and covered with white calico. The bobbins were either bone or turned wood. The number of bobbins reflected the complexity of the pattern. The motifs, usually objects from nature—flowers, leaves, fruit, birds—would then be joined together with tiny plaits or bars into larger patterns and sewn onto fine silk netting.”
I looked at the photo in more detail. The girls wore white smocks over short, printed dresses. Some had bows in their long hair. Behind them stood two adult women in dark dresses, tight under the arms and fitted high at the neck. “The girls look well cared for.”
“Photographs can be deceiving.” Isla’s left eyebrow arched. “Children, usually girls, were sent to lace schools as young as five or six. It was thought that if they didn’t begin early, their fingers would never develop the dexterity to produce the kind of high-quality lace that would earn them a decent income later. The youngest would have worked four or five hours a day, the oldest girls up to sixteen hours a day—can you imagine? The little ones must have been terribly homesick, and the conditions were appalling. In summer the girls could work outdoors, but for most of the year, they worked indoors. No electricity, of course, or even gas lamps. Candles were fixed to metal poles. Water-filled glass flasks called ‘flashes’ reflected the light onto the girls’ cushions. Open fires weren’t allowed, as the soot could blacken the lace, so the young lacemakers sat with a pot of hot ashes at their feet. Ventilation was nonexistent. Breathing difficulties were common, The lace mistresses were strict, often harsh.”
“You’re very knowledgeable. Did you design the exhibit?”
“I helped. The original exhibit was created long before Dr. Hawksworthy took over, but he’s added significantly to the display. He’s really a genius.” Isla’s face glowed. “I lead group tours—mostly for schoolchildren and sometimes for local pensioners’ outings. Lacemaking is an interest of mine.”
I picked up the earthenware teapot, admiring the designs in brilliant shades of cobalt blue, copper lustre, yellow, burnt orange, and green.
Hawksworthy appeared in the doorway. “Ah, the teapot. What’s the verdict?”
“It’s certainly colorful.” I turned the pot over in my hand, making sure to hold the lid in place. “It’s called Swansea Cottage in the UK—Gaudy Welsh in the States. Popular in the nineteenth century, inexpensive, highly decorative, and very collectible.”
“We have a similar teapot on display in our Romani exhibit,” Hawksworthy said. “The ware was popular among the Romanichal people.”
“Romanichal? I’m not familiar with the term.”
“I’m sure you know the Romani people have their roots in the Indian subcontinent. Most scholars agree they began migrating west in the eleventh century. The Romanichals, sometimes called English Gypsies, probably came through France around the end of the fifteenth century and mixed with local Travellers. They speak English and Angloromani, a language that blends English syntax with Romani vocabulary. Some have settled in the larger cities, but most still move from place to place, valuing their ancient traditions and way of life, which we’ve tried to display in a culturally appropriate manner. On Thursday we’re hosting two of the West County Gypsy leaders. I hope you’ll attend. Isla, do you have one of our programs handy?”
Hawksworthy’s use of the word Gypsy was making me uncomfortable. “I thought the term Gypsy was considered a racial slur.”
“I understand it is in the States. Things are rather more complicated here. If you come on Thursday evening, I’m sure you’ll hear all about it.”
Isla handed me a brochure listing the museum’s monthly community programs. I leafed through, seeing topics ranging from flourless baking in the Second World War to the ninth-century Viking invasions to a video presentation about A la Ronde, England’s only sixteen-sided house. January’s program was titled England’s GRTs and the Crime of Travelling. “What are GRTs?” I asked.
“It’s an acronym, an umbrella term meaning Gypsy, Roma, and Traveller.”
“I’ll talk to Tom, but I’m sure he’ll be delighted. We both will.”
Hawksworthy picked up the carved wooden box and removed the lid, showing me a number of gold coins inside. “Eight gold sovereigns with the head of Queen Victoria. Issue dates ranging from 1874 to 1882. Another possible connection with the Romanichals. They valued visible signs of wealth and often used gold and silver coins as jewelry—a status symbol, and when times were hard, easily pawned.”
“My colleague and I recently appraised a similar coin from 1838. These aren’t as rare, but they’re certainly valuable.”
“I consulted a coin collector I know in Exeter,” Hawksworthy said. “A sovereign represented more than a month’s wages for a nineteenth-century laborer. A substantial sum.”
He handed me the wooden box, which was carved in a design of oak leaves and ivy. “This box is another possible Romanichal connection. Some of the men were skilled woodworkers. Most of what they made was functional—bowls, platters, pegs, and so forth—but they made decorative items as well.”
“It’s beautiful. Like a small treasure chest.” I frowned, trying to understand the overall context. There’s always a reason. Had the box held the pieces of jewelry laid out on the table? I saw a string of glass beads in a pretty coral color and a silver ring in a design sometimes referred to as “movable hands”—three narrow bands that, when stacked, bring two hands together in a clasp of friendship. Both pretty and collectible but not especially valuable. More interesting to me was an elaborate jet-bead choker necklace, the shiny black beads actually faceted spheres of fossilized wood, strung in an elaborate three-inch-wide pattern. Jet-bead jewelry was wildly popular in the nineteenth century. This choker was in poor condition. One of the strings had broken. Some of the beads were missing.
“We found this in the box as well.” Hawksworthy handed me a gold ring, slightly domed and set with a deep-blue sapphire framed by two mine-cut diamonds. I held the small gold circle up to the overhead lamp, checking for hallmarks and watching the gems capture the light.
The pounding of my heart took me completely by surprise. The ring was interesting but certainly no treasure. Much of the gold had worn away. The gems were not fine quality. Yet there was something there. I could feel it—an intensity of emotion or some kind of weird physical reaction. I felt my face flush.
“It’s lovely,” I said, taming my breath into something resembling mere academic interest. “It’s seen lots of wear. The marks are nearly worn away, and the shank is thin—there, where the finger would bend.” I reached into my handbag, pulled out my lighted magnifier, and trained it on the band. “I can just make out the sovereign’s crown. That means the ring was cast of British-made gold. Oh—and there’s the number 18, meaning eighteen carat.”
“The setting is unusual,” Isla said. “The stones are actually embedded into the gold.”
“It’s called a hammer setting,” I said, feeling my heart returning to its normal rhythm. “Most rings use prongs to prop up the gem, allowing light to refract. In hammer settings, the gems are hammered into the band itself. Clean, minimalistic. It’s an attractive design, almost contemporary in feeling.”
I looked at the objects laid out side by side on the table. A photograph of young lacemakers. A woman’s jewelry. Eight gold sovereigns in a carved oak box. A Gaudy Welsh teapot. An unusual gold ring. What did they have in common with the bloodstained dress and the quilt?
“Littlejohn told us he’d found a handwritten note pinned to the dress,” I said. “I’ve been wondering why you haven’t shown it to me.”
“Oh, that.” Dr. Hawksworthy looked embarrassed. “I haven’t shown it to you because it’s worthless—a forgery. Intended to look like old handwriting, but it’s actually quite recent.”
“How do you know?”
“The usual way—too perfect. Forgers try too hard to get it right.”
A forgery? That didn’t make sense. Who would do that—and why? “Do you still have the note?”
“I didn’t keep it. It was an obvious fake.”
“Do you remember what it said?”
“It said, ‘Dress belonging to Nancy Thorne, a murderess.’”
The mystery surrounding the bloodstained dress was murkier now than ever.