I arrived at Julia Kelly’s workroom around two. The museum was quiet. A few visitors, mostly senior citizens, strolled leisurely through the exhibits. Everything, as far as I could tell, was back in perfect order.
Julia was arranging the garnet-red dress, the one I’d seen earlier, on another of the mannequins. Now, displayed on a human form, I realized just how truly spectacular it was. The ball gown had a wide, open neckline, a tightly boned bodice, and yards and yards of the self-patterned silk fabric gathered into pleats, drapes, and ruffles. But the eye-popping feature was an enormous bustle that stood out from the back of the dress at a ninety-degree angle.
“Hey, Kate.” Julia looked up from her work. “Can you imagine wearing this? The bustles were so heavily padded people claimed they could support an entire tea service.”
“How did the wearer sit?”
“Perched on the edge of the chair, I imagine—if they sat at all. The weight of these gowns was so great, an infrastructure had to be created with flexible wire, cane, and whalebone.”
“When would a dress like this have been worn—the period, I mean?”
“We can place it almost exactly to the years between 1885 and 1888. Before that, bustles had been mostly replaced by draped or pleated trains. Suddenly they reappeared—with a vengeance. Then, after 1888, with the increasing popularity of what was called ‘the Rational Dress Movement,’ dresses returned to slimmer, more natural silhouettes.”
“Women came to their senses.”
Julia laughed. “Fashion has never been a matter of sense. Remember the huge shoulder pads, head-to-toe sequins, and neon spandex of the eighties?”
“I could show you photos.” I made a face. “You said the dress was donated by a local family. Do you know the name of the woman who wore it?”
“I don’t. You could ask Hugo or Isla.” Julia drew my attention to the waistline. “You can see an hourglass shape was attempted—she would have worn a corset—but this woman had some weight on her. She might have been pregnant.”
Like the wearer of the bloodstained dress. “What else does the dress tell you?”
“This isn’t the kind of frock one would have worn to a country ball. The woman who owned it probably spent the social season in London. That and the silk fabric, almost certainly imported from France, tells me she was wealthy—landed gentry, maybe even titled.”
“The color is spectacular—and it hasn’t faded.”
“Thanks to those newly invented aniline dyes.” Julia peeled off the white gloves she’d been wearing. “There’s one other thing, Kate—the most important thing. I’m convinced the seamstress who made this dress also made the calico dress with the bloodstains.”
“Really?” Nancy Thorne’s sister, Sally Tucker, had been a dressmaker.
“Every seamstress had her own unique way of working—almost a signature.”
“Wouldn’t the family who donated the dress know her name?”
“That’s Hugo’s job. My interest is the garment itself.”
“I met with a librarian today. She’s helping me trace Nancy Thorne’s family through the census information.”
“You mean Maggie Hughes. She’s been incredibly helpful with local history.” Julia leaned in as if someone might be listening. “Actually, Maggie saved Hugo from some embarrassment last year. He’d purchased what he thought was an English copy of Bede’s Commentary on the Gospel of St. Luke from the scriptorium of a ruined Benedictine monastery near Bovey Tracey. It was very exciting. We had several pages on display in the room dedicated to Devon’s religious history—until Maggie Hughes pointed out, privately, that two words in the commentary—unearthly and auspicious—weren’t coined until a half century after the monastery was dissolved. That prompted a scientific analysis of the so-called sheepskin parchment. It turned out to be old shoe leather, aged with a coating of animal-skin glue. Can you imagine? If Hugo’s mistake had become public, his reputation would have been damaged. I can’t think how the forgery slipped past him. He should have suspected something. Isla still hasn’t forgiven Maggie.”
“Forgiven Maggie? For what—pointing it out?”
“Completely unfair, of course.” Julia was arranging a series of pleats along the side of the red dress. “Hugo is nothing if not ambitious. I’m sure he wanted the commentary to be authentic. Like he wants the dress to be authentic.”
“Dr. Hawksworthy is the one who gave me Maggie’s name.”
“He owes her.” Julia inserted a pin to hold up a sagging flounce. “Maggie could have written an article about the forgery. It would have enhanced her academic reputation. And yet Isla acts as if Maggie was a traitor or something by pointing out the error.”
“Isla’s very loyal.”
“I think Hugo takes advantage of her. She’s been with him for years. I’m sure she’s in love with him.”
I’d thought that as well. It was fairly obvious. “Is he in love with her?”
“I don’t know. Hugo’s single. Divorced.” She straightened. “But you’re not here for museum gossip. Let’s have a look at the calico dress. I’ll show you what I found.”
The dress, covered with protective sheeting, was spread out on the worktable. Julia removed the sheeting, opened the bodice, and folded it back to reveal the interior structure.
The room felt hot. I swallowed against the dryness in my throat.
“This humble dress was constructed with as much skill as the red silk. The calico fabric was meticulously underlined with undyed muslin and the seams bound with fine cotton lawn. Can you see the subtle shade difference—right there? I’m sure the binding between the bust and the waist was applied later, after the dress had been worn for a while. I’ve removed a section of lining so you can see the stains.” She pointed at one of the curved seams along the front. “Analyzing stains is partly science, partly intuition; but if the bodice of the dress came into contact with blood—lots of it—the stains would have been less pronounced on the interior seams, which were partially protected by the bodice lining and the seam finishing. That’s not true in this case. Look for yourself.”
I did, noticing that the blood had soaked fully into the cut edges of the fabric. Blood. So much blood. An image swam in my brain. The same image I’d seen before. A woman on her knees, sobbing. I stepped back, distancing myself from the blood.
“There—see what I mean?” Julia looked up. Could she hear the pounding of my heart? “You can see blood on the finished edges. That tells me there was more fabric there at one time.”
I took a deep breath. “You mean when the blood came into contact with the dress, the garment was larger around the waist.”
“Yes. When Victorian women became pregnant, they wore the same style of clothing but altered to accommodate their increased girth. Most, even poor women, wore maternity corsets. The lacings on the sides could be loosened as the baby grew, but many women continued to tight-lace—working women especially in the first five months or so. Pregnancy often meant a loss of employment. In other words, they hid their pregnancies as long as they could.”
I focused on Julia’s explanation, forcing myself to breathe normally. “And when they couldn’t hide it?”
“They simply withdrew from public exposure.” She looked at me curiously. “Do you need to sit down, Kate?”
“I’m fine. Just hot.” I peeled off my jacket to prove it. “The 1891 census records for Widdecombe Throop show that the Thorne household included a child born around 1885 or 1886. His name was William Tucker, the son of Sally Tucker, Nancy’s older sister.”
“As I said, my job is to observe and analyze the garments and to gather data. I leave the interpretation of that information up to others.”
Once again, the deep lace collar drew my eyes, with its exuberant motifs taken from the natural world. I noticed tiny, perfect acorns incorporated into the design, and an unusual slipper-like blossom. “Is that a real flower?” I asked Julia, determined to focus on details and information.
“Bird’s-foot trefoil. You’ll see it everywhere around here in summer. The local people call it ‘eggs and bacon’ because of the egg-yolk-yellow flowers and reddish buds.”
“Why bird’s foot?”
“Because of the clawlike seed pods.” She re-covered the dress with sheeting. “Have the police made any progress on the murder—or aren’t you able to tell me? Gideon was a friend.”
I didn’t want to lie, but I couldn’t tell her about the Nixons. “The police are moving ahead with their investigation. I’m sure we’ll know more soon.”
I couldn’t wait to get out of there.
Back at the Crown, I found Tom waiting for me. “Hello there, beautiful. I was about to phone you.” He pulled me in for a kiss. “What d’you say we take a walk before dinner? We still have a good hour of light, and the weather isn’t bad.”
“I’d love that. Let me change my shoes. Be down in a minute.”
Ten minutes later we donned our parkas and gloves and left the pub by the rear entrance. Tom waved a brochure. “The front desk gave me a map of the footpaths. Oh, and speaking of maps—DCI Okoje would like you to look at the floor plan of the museum we put together. You were on the ground floor when the shot was actually fired, but you’d just come from the mechanical clock demonstration on the first floor. That’s where the shooter was located. Okoje would like to know if you see anything on the plan that sends up red flags.”
“Of course, but I was focused on the clock like everyone else.”
“I know. The shooter chose the perfect moment.”
The hotel parking area led to a series of footpaths crisscrossing the landscape around Coombe Mallet, skirting open fields and winding through impressive woodlands. We chose the Dartmeet Walk along the river, which reminded me of the walks we loved to take along the Stour near Long Barston. I loved the sound of water rushing over the stones and the possibility of spying the creatures that made their homes on the riverbank. It always reminded me of The Wind in the Willows, one of my favorite childhood books.
“What will happen to the Nixons?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” Tom pushed a low-hanging branch out of the way. “Clive isn’t one of nature’s geniuses. He’s got himself into real trouble this time with loan sharks.”
“That’s what Donna said. Can the police help him?”
“The important thing right now is prising whatever information he might have about Littlejohn’s early-morning visitor out of his thick head.”
“Donna said he didn’t see anything, not even if the person on Littlejohn’s doorstep was male or female.”
“Turns out he did see something—or rather heard it. When Gideon answered the door, Clive heard him say, ‘Oh fine. Let’s get this over once and for all.’”
“Is that important?”
“It could be. It means Littlejohn wasn’t happy this person turned up.”
“And it narrows the time of death even further. Donna said the visitor showed up midmorning, around ten AM.”
“You think like a detective.”
“It’s rubbing off on me.”
We’d reach a stile. Tom went first and then helped me over. “The police are pinning their hopes on the computer files, but Littlejohn knew what he was doing. He used something called a two-hundred-fifty-six-bit AES key. Don’t ask me to explain it. It’s a high level of security. The digital forensics team in London needs a password. They’ve asked the software publisher to provide the digital key. The problem is they might not agree to give it to the police.”
“Did you tell the police about the three men Littlejohn was hired to investigate?”
“Another dead end. When Littlejohn was shot, all three of them were in a meeting with their legal team. Lots of witnesses.”
“What if they hired a hit man?”
“Hit men don’t usually make appointments in advance, Kate, and the victim usually doesn’t know them. It looks like whoever killed Littlejohn was known to him.”
The path led us to a narrow section of the River Dart where a series of flat granite slabs formed a bridge. Tom consulted the route details. “The map says it’s a medieval clapper bridge.” He held out his hand. “Can you make it?”
“I can if you can.”
The bridge forded the river at a narrows. We hopped from slab to slab. Once across, we entered a wooded area with the remains of an old, ruined cottage.
“Did you tell DCI Okoje about Karl Benables?”
“Turns out they’ve had their eye on him.”
“For the alleged corruption or for the attacks on his daughter and son-in-law?”
“Both.”
“I can’t imagine he staged the attacks.” I shook my head. “As much as he might resent his son-in-law, I don’t believe he would risk harming his own daughter and grandchildren.”
“For the record, they haven’t found a shred of evidence against him. Either he’s innocent or knows how to maintain deniability.”
“There’s got to be more to the story.”
“I agree.” The path took a sharp rise. Several large tree roots snaked across the footpath. “How was your day? How was Maggie Hughes?”
“Helpful.” I told him about the census records. “Now all we have to do is find a family named Tucker that traces their descent back to Widdecombe Throop.”
“And that won’t be a problem.” I saw the corner of his mouth go up. “Seeing that Tucker is one of the most common surnames in Devon.”
“At least English people didn’t change their surname every generation like the Scandinavians. My father and grandfather were both Larsens—literally ‘the son of Lars.’ But my great-grandfather was Lars Jensen—‘the son of Jens,’ and his father was Jens Pedersen, ‘the son of Peder.’”
“I’m getting a headache.”
“I know. Makes genealogy challenging. Seriously, though, it would help if we could locate the solicitor who handled the sale of that household. I’m counting on Ivor.”
“Speaking of solicitors, Anna Tran contacted the Nixons about the will. She told Okoje they were shocked. Or seemed to be.”
“If they didn’t know about the inheritance, it pretty much eliminates their motive.”
Tom didn’t answer. The footpath had opened up into a field. Although the light was fading, we could see the path where feet had trodden. “We should head back,” he said, looking at his watch. “We’ll be able to see where we’re going until at least five, but crossing that clapper bridge in the dark wouldn’t be a smart idea.”
My cell phone pinged, and I pulled it out of my jacket pocket. “It’s an email from someone named Max Newlin.”
“Max who?”
“Newlin. Wait—this could be interesting. He’s responding to my query about Littlejohn’s wife and Mercy Abbott.” I clicked on the message and read it aloud:
Hello Kate. You asked about Freya Little. I’m sorry to tell you that she died in 2015. Single-car crash on the Barton Road. I’m afraid that’s all the information I have. Mercy Abbott’s still around. She was quite active on the festival committee for a time, but she left the area. I’m not at liberty to share her contact information, but if you give me your mobile number, I’ll pass along a message. She may be willing to contact you. Max Newlin, International Agatha Christie Festival.
“The ex-wife’s a dead end, then,” Tom said.
“Literally. But Mercy Abbott’s out there somewhere.” I typed in my cell number and pushed send.
That evening as Tom and I were finishing an early dinner at the Crown, we heard raised voices, not coming from the bar this time but from the entrance to the dining room.
Quinn and Teddy Pearce were standing at the hostess desk with the older, silver-haired couple we’d seen at the gala.
Quinn was complaining to a very young hostess, “I specifically asked for the round table near the fire.” She indicated a table on the far side of the room where two couples sat, just beginning their meals.
“It wasn’t noted on the booking, madam.” The hostess looked close to tears.
“Well, it should have been. I made a point of it on the phone.”
“I’m terribly sorry, madam.”
Teddy took her arm. “It’s all right, luv.”
“No, it’s not all right.” Quinn turned back to the frightened girl. “My husband is your newly elected MP. We eat here frequently. We have guests tonight.”
“I am sorry, madam,” the girl repeated. “Someone must have mixed up the bookings.”
“It’s not a problem, luv—really,” Teddy said. “Plenty of other tables.”
“But I asked for the round table.” Quinn’s face was flushed. “And I made the booking a week ago. You’ll just have to do something.”
“I don’t know what can be done at this point, madam. We can hardly ask—”
Her words were cut short by the arrival of Yvie Innes, who smiled pleasantly. “Now, what’s this all about?”
Quinn had started to tell her story again when the older woman, Mrs. Jamieson, put her arm around Quinn’s shoulders. “It’s not important, dear.”
“It’s the principle.”
“There’s really no problem,” agreed Mr. Jamieson. “We’re happy to sit anywhere.”
“You see, Quinn?” said Teddy. “Everything will be fine.” He turned to Yvie Innes. “Sorry for the disturbance. We’ll take that nice table by the window.”
Yvie grabbed menus. “Sorted, then? All hearts still beating?”
As they made their way to the new table, Teddy spotted us. “Hullo, Tom, Kate. Sorry for the … mix-up.” He shrugged.
Quinn managed a tiny smile.
“Anyway,” Teddy said, “I’d like you to meet our good friends, Richard and Clare Jamieson.”
We both stood, and Tom held out his hand. “We met briefly at the gala.”
“Yes, I remember,” said Richard Jamieson. “The policeman from Suffolk.”
“And your very charming wife,” said Clare Jamieson, smiling. “What beautiful blue eyes you have, dear.” She reached out and touched my hair. “Has anyone ever said you look like Charlize Theron? When her hair was dark, of course.” She went on before I could answer. “This whole thing has been a terrible shock. I always liked Gideon Littlejohn.”
“I’m sure we all did,” agreed her husband.
Yvie Innes stood, waiting, with the menus in her hand.
“Don’t let us delay your dinner,” Tom said. “Lovely to see you all.”
Yvie led them to a table on the far side of the restaurant.
“Now that’s interesting,” Tom said when we were alone.
“What’s interesting?”
“Quinn Pearce accused her father of throwing his weight around, but she doesn’t mind throwing her own around, does she? All seven and a half stone of her.”