It was four o’clock by the time I got back to the Crown. I found a comfortable chair near one of the open fires and decided to make a few phone calls before meeting Tom for dinner at the Pig & Whistle. Eager to learn more about the items stored with the bloodstained dress, I called Ivor, my colleague at the Cabinet of Curiosities, the antiques and antiquities shop where I worked in Long Barston. As far as I was concerned, Ivor knew everything.
“Well, I didn’t expect to hear from you for a while,” he said. “Everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine, but there’s been a murder.” I heard a small choking sound. “I’ll tell you about it when we get home. We were first on the scene—well, almost first. Tom’s helping the Devon police. I’m trying to authenticate a late-Victorian dress supposedly belonging to a lacemaker and possible murderess. Look,” I said quickly, before he could get a word in, “I know how this sounds, but I think you might be able to help.”
Ivor was silent for a beat longer than necessary. “Isn’t this meant to be your honeymoon?”
“It’s complicated.” I gave him the CliffsNotes version, but even that took time. “Today I saw the items Gideon Littlejohn donated to the museum along with the dress. He said he found everything in a trunk—part of a household he bought at auction. Among them was a very beautiful but well-worn hammer-set ring. Is there something I should know?”
“They were called Gypsy-set rings in Queen Victoria’s time.”
“Gypsy-set?” Was this another Romani connection? “Why?”
“Because the design seems to have originated in the Romani culture. Many Romani men were skilled metalworkers. The design was sturdy and easy to make with the tools they possessed. By the late Victorian era, Gypsy-set rings were all the rage, so it might have belonged to anyone.”
“We’ve found several possible links between the bloodstained dress and the Romanichals in Devon. It’s puzzling.”
“And you love a puzzle. How’s the honeymoon going—other than investigating murder? Black eyes fading? Tom’s gash healing?”
I had to laugh. “We’re having a wonderful time. The black eyes are more yellowish green now. You can hardly notice them. How’s everyone in Long Barston?”
“Fine and dandy. Vivian misses having you to fuss over. She’s looking for a new lodger—someone to take your place. Lady Barbara’s over the moon in her private apartment in the west wing. You know the National Trust is scheduled to open Finchley Hall to the public in April. They’ve begun hiring locally. A good thing for the village.”
Lady Barbara Finchley-fforde, daughter of the late marquess and last of that titled family, had gifted her family estate, Finchley Hall, to the National Trust the previous November when it became clear she could no longer afford to maintain the crumbling Elizabethan manor house. Vivian Bunn, the bossy but lovable woman with whom I’d boarded before the wedding, lived in a cottage on the Finchley estate with her elderly pug, Fergus. To be truthful, I missed them too. Especially Ivor.
“How are things at the shop?”
“Quiet. Almost no walk-ins this time of year. Internet sales are ticking along. Back to the Victorian dress. What are you doing to authenticate?”
“Trying to find the name of the family that sold it to Gideon Littlejohn, for starters. The problem is, I don’t know exactly when he bought the household—or where. Sometime last summer, he said. I wish I’d asked him for details.”
“I could check the past-auction listings.”
“Would you, Ivor?” This man was a wonder. “The solicitor handling the estate might have been named Rutledge.” It was a leap, I knew, but since leads were thin on the ground, worth checking.
“That will help. I’ll let you know if I find anything.”
“Marvelous. In the meantime, say hello to everyone.”
We hung up, and I was about to phone my mother in Wisconsin when I saw an incoming phone call from a number I didn’t recognize.
“Hi, Kate. It’s Julia Kelly. I just noticed something about the dress. It’s rather unusual, and I thought you’d want to know. The dress has been altered at the waistline—significantly. I think it was made for a pregnant woman, then cut down after she gave birth.”
“A pregnant woman? How do you know that?”
“I don’t know for certain, but at one time, the dress was considerably larger in the waistline. Tiny breaks in the seam finishing tell me that. The dress fabric is calico, but the seamstress bound the seams with a fine cotton lawn, probably left over from another project—nothing wasted, you know. The fabric binding on the seams around the waistline is also lawn, but not from the same bolt. The color is off, for one thing, and the thread count slightly different. I think it was done later.”
“Was it unusual to repurpose a maternity dress?”
“Not for poor women. But the unusual part isn’t that the dress was altered. It’s the bloodstains. You saw them on the bodice and the skirt. The stains at the waist continue into the seam allowances. Best if I show you. Come tomorrow if you can. I’ll be here.”
“Why would someone go to the trouble of resizing a dress stained with blood? Who would wear it?”
“I can’t answer that,” Julia said. “But the dress was definitely worn after alteration—and for some time. The new seams show signs of wear.”
None of this was making sense. “But Nancy Thorne was never married.”
“Doesn’t mean she didn’t have a child.”
I arrived at the Pig & Whistle ahead of Tom and chose a table near the open hearth. I’ve always loved log fires. There’s something comforting about a fire, the smell of burning wood, the crackling of the flames. In most parts of the UK, log fires burn almost year-round. The Georgian house Tom and I would live in when we got home had several fireplaces, and I intended to make sure they were all in safe, working condition.
Because I had a few more minutes to wait, I took out my notebook and began jotting down the facts I’d learned about the bloodstained dress. Everything about it—the style, the printed fabric, the workmanship—placed it as mid to late nineteenth century. The bloodstains on the skirt and the bodice were massive, suggesting that someone, or possibly an animal, I had to admit, had been terribly injured, perhaps fatally. The woman wearing the dress had either tried to help the victim or was herself the killer. If Julia Kelly was right, the dress had been made for a pregnant woman, then altered after she gave birth. This didn’t mean the dress couldn’t have been passed down from someone else, of course, but most puzzling of all, the dress had been worn with the visible stains. I knew poor people at that time couldn’t just go out and buy something new, but still.
The dress had been found by Gideon Littlejohn in an old trunk, part of a lot auctioned off after the death of an elderly man. I’d seen the trunk briefly when Littlejohn showed me the quilt, but I hadn’t had a chance to examine it. I’d do that as soon as the police gave me clearance to enter the Old Merchant’s House. Some of the items in the trunk suggested a Romani connection. Strangest of all, according to Hugo Hawksworthy, the note found pinned to the dress, calling Nancy Thorne a murderess, had been a forgery, written much later. But to what end? I couldn’t imagine.
My cell phone pinged—an email had arrived from Maggie Hughes at the Coombe Mallet Public Library:
Hello, Kate. I’d love to help if I can. Tomorrow I have a meeting in Exeter, but I’m free Wednesday afternoon. Say one o’clock? Dr. Hawksworthy explained what you’re doing. I’ll try to have some information ready. Let me know.
I replied, thanking her and telling her I’d be at the library at one on Wednesday.
Tom arrived, unwinding his scarf and hanging his jacket on a hook near the table. The yellowish-green shadow around his eye had nearly faded, but the gash on his forehead was still red. He’d probably have a scar. “Hullo, darling.” He bent and kissed me lightly. “How was your day?”
“Frustrating.” I told him what I’d learned about the bloodstained dress. “Three things bother me—no, actually four. First, why was the dress kept in a trunk with items suggesting a Romani connection? I don’t get it. Second, the blood. Whose blood was it—Nancy Thorne’s or someone else’s?” I explained Julia Kelly’s theory that the dress had originally been made for a pregnant woman. “Third question—why would a woman continue wearing a dress like that after it was so badly stained? And fourth, the note pinned to the dress naming Nancy Thorne as a murderess. Dr. Hawksworthy says it was a forgery. Who would write such a thing, and why?”
“Maybe the writer of the note knew about the transcript from the documentary—the one naming Nancy Thorne as the suspect in an unsolved crime—and wanted to capitalize on it.”
“Well, yes—I suppose that’s possible.” Tom was right. I knew from long experience in the antiques trade that people love to connect their families with well-known people and events in history. I couldn’t count the number of times customers had sworn on their grandmother’s grave, for example, that the old bowling pins they’d found in their attic had come from the first White House bowling alley or that their signed photograph of Abraham Lincoln (an obvious fake) had been gifted by the Great Emancipator himself to their great-great-grandfather after the Battle of Vicksburg.
Tom got up to kick an errant ember back into the fire. “There’s something else. The trunk. Why did Littlejohn refuse to part with it?”
“You’re making it worse,” I said. A waiter in black jeans and a white apron handed us menus.
Tom stowed his menu on his lap. “So we’re no farther ahead at all?”
“We do have leads. Ivor’s checking the auction listings. Our best chance of authenticating the dress is to learn the name of the family who put the items up for auction. I told him to look for a solicitor named Rutledge.”
“That’s good, but if the note was a fake, why not the dress as well?” He rubbed the back of his neck, a sure sign he was frustrated.
“Bad day?”
He huffed. “This is the part of an investigation I like least—the beginning, when it’s all questions and no answers.”
“Haven’t the police learned anything?”
“About the shooting at the gala or the murder of Gideon Littlejohn?”
“Start with Littlejohn.”
“The police found traces of DNA on the front door and in Littlejohn’s study. More than one individual, ours included. The problem is finding matches—impossible unless we’re dealing with known criminals. We can’t ask everyone in the village to take a DNA test.”
“Did they try matching the DNA possibly left by the intruder three months earlier?”
“No match.” He scanned his menu briefly, then closed it. “The Hi-Tech Crime Unit from Exeter has taken away all the computer equipment, including a large number of USB flash drives. Going through that lot will take time. They have learned one interesting fact, though. Gideon Littlejohn wasn’t his real name. He was born Gordon Little. Changed his name sometime in 2014.”
“Really? I wonder why.”
“I imagine his sister, Donna, would know. She and her husband, Clive Nixon, have been informed of his death.”
“Where do they live?”
“West side of Exeter. They told the police they know nothing about his murder, and they didn’t mention the name change, although, to be fair, they weren’t asked. When they were asked about their recent visit to the Old Merchant’s House—the visit Beryl Grey mentioned—they said it was purely a social call. They denied it had anything to do with legal matters and insist they’ve never heard of a solicitor named Rutledge.”
“Is there a solicitor in the area with that name?”
“No, but then Beryl Grey might have got the name wrong—or perhaps he’s not from around here.” The waiter delivered our drinks. Tom tipped his ale down the side of a tall glass. “DCI Okoje would like us to speak with the Nixons.”
“Us? Why?”
“The idea is, if we go there asking about the dress, they might tell us something they wouldn’t tell the police. Like why Littlejohn changed his name.”
“They’re under no obligation to tell us anything, Tom.”
“That’s the point. Most people don’t like talking to the police. There’s an instinctive reluctance, a mistrust. It feels like interrogation—especially when you’ve had prior experience with the legal system. Clive Nixon has form. Nothing violent, but still. Private investigators are in a different category, especially those doing research into the distant past. Nice and safe.”
I thought of my friend Sheila Parker, whose deceased husband Lenny, a minor criminal, always said, “Never get involved with the rozzers.” In his case, with good reason.
“What do you think?” Tom asked.
“Let’s do it. Why not?”
“How about tomorrow, then? We can drive into Exeter, see the Nixons, be back in time to debrief Okoje, and still have an early dinner at the Crown, just the two of us.”
“Sounds lovely.” I reached out and took his hand. “Technically, we’re still on our honeymoon, right?”
“Absolutely. Is there such a thing as a working honeymoon?”
“There is now.” I still hadn’t looked at the menu. “Have the police learned anything more about the shooting at the museum gala?”
“We’ve spoken with everyone present that night, including the caterers and their staff. No one admits to bringing a gun, of course, and no one saw the shooter. We’ve been mapping out all four levels, placing people where they say they were at the time of the shooting and then trying to find corroboration.”
“And?”
“A number of people could have done it—those on the first level—but of course they all deny it. And so far we haven’t come up with a motive.”
“The Jamiesons were on the first level. So was Quinn Pearce. I saw them during the clock demonstration.”
“True, but Quinn Pearce wouldn’t risk harming her own husband, and Richard Jamieson and his wife, Clare, insist they’re big Pearce supporters.”
“Jamieson was the one who called Pearce out during his speech.”
“He says he was warning Pearce not to say too much too soon. There’s an ongoing investigation into the possible corruption of three local bureaucrats. There may be others involved. Jamieson was warning him not to jeopardize the investigation. I got the impression he’s had to rein Pearce in on more than one occasion.”
“Were any of those local bureaucrats at the gala?”
“No.”
“Have the police traced the gun?”
“No prints, no serial numbers.”
As I tucked that thought away, our waiter appeared. “Have we decided?”
“What do you recommend?” Tom asked.
“I’m partial to the sole and the venison myself—both local.”
We ordered one of each, planning to share, and drinks—wine for me and another of the local ales for Tom.
The waiter had just left with our orders when we heard a loud crash coming from the bar area. Tom, always the policeman, sprinted toward the commotion. I followed him.
One of the barstools lay on its side. Two men stood facing each other, fists raised, faces flushed. One was heavyset, with the unhealthy complexion of a drinker. The other was Teddy Pearce. Blood ran from his nose. He wiped it away with the back of his hand. “You’re dead wrong, eegit. It’s not like that.”
“Inn’it?” The other man growled, his accent pure West Country. “You blather on ’bout ending corruption, but yer up t’your bloody neck in it.”
Pearce dabbed at his nose. “That’s a damn lie, and you know it.”
“Oh, aye?” The other man turned to the crowd. “It’s yer wife’s bloody father who’s behind everything.”
The bartender in his white apron had come around the bar. He stood with his hands up. “Come on, both of youse. I won’t have it.”
The older man moved toward Pearce. One of his fists was bleeding. “How much is he payin’ you to keep ’is name out of it?”
Pearce sprang at the man.
Tom grabbed him from behind. “Pearce—that’s enough. This isn’t helping.”
Pearce whirled around and threw a punch, catching Tom on the right cheek before recognizing him. His face went slack. “Oh, geez. I’m sorry, man. I just—” He subsided onto a stool, shaking the pain out of his fist.
The bartender handed the other man his coat and led him to the exit. “Banned for a month, Charlie. Won’t tolerate fightin’. You know better than that.”
“What about ’im?”
“You started it.”
Charlie, whoever he was, didn’t argue. He slammed out the door.
Someone handed Pearce a napkin. He wiped his face. “Tom—sorry, man. I just … what he said, I—” He broke off, took a long breath, and blew it out. “I’m sorry.”
A bruise was coming up on Tom’s cheek. He touched it gingerly. Turning to the waiter, he said, “Can you bring him some water?”
The bartender brought a glass of water. Pearce downed half of it.
“Where’s your car?” Tom asked. “Can you drive?”
“Yeah. Had barely half a pint before the man attacked me.”
“Want to press charges?”
“Nah. Not worth it.” Pearce stood. “Sorry. Thanks. I’m leaving.”
He grabbed his jacket from a hook on the wall and left the bar.
“Oh, Tom,” I said. “Your face.” His left cheek was already turning an ominous shade of purple. At least he wouldn’t have another black eye.
Our waiter approached us. “Er, sorry. Your dinners are ready.”