Thursday, January 9
I was still thinking about Quinn Pearce the next morning at breakfast. “I don’t really get her at all,” I told Tom. He’d finished his breakfast and was checking his phone for messages. “When you first meet her, she seems sort of passive, almost fragile. Like a sharp breeze would knock her over. Maybe it’s because she’s so thin. But when you go deeper, you realize she’s got a core of steel. I think she’s the one who runs that household.”
“I know what you mean. I get the impression Teddy would do just about anything to please her—including backing down when they disagree.” He looked at his phone screen. “It’s Okoje. I’ve been waiting for this.” Tom scanned the message. “He’d like us to stop at the police enquiry office this morning. I’m going to be there most of the day, but he’d really like you to have a look at that museum floor plan. Any reason why you can’t?”
“None at all. I’d planned to stop by the museum sometime today to visit the Romani exhibit. And I’m hoping to speak with Maggie Hughes again. She’s been doing some research into the Squires clan. But I don’t have any fixed appointments.”
Tom tapped in a message. “All set. I told him we’d be there in about twenty minutes.”
When we arrived at the policy enquiry office, one of the community support officers showed us into the conference room, where DCI Okoje and DS Varma were studying three large pieces of paper, each representing one of the upper floors of the museum. Small squares of paper had been tacked onto the floor plans. On each was written a name.
“This is the floor we’re most interested in.” DCI Okoje stabbed his forefinger on the first-floor area where the mechanical clock was on display. “We know the shot was fired from here. According to forensics, the shooter would have been standing near the railing overlooking the ground floor.”
I mentally shuddered, realizing that I’d stood in that exact spot just minutes before the mechanical clock demonstration. Had I seen anyone? Heard anything? I leaned closer to the floor plan and saw a small paper square with my name on it.
“Is that about where you were standing when the demonstration began?” Okoje asked.
“Yes, I think so. Quinn Pearce and the Jamiesons were in front of me, on the right. A woman with a child stood next to them. Oh, and two men—one short, the other tall with a red face.”
“Sounds like Eddie Smith,” said DS Varma. “I interviewed him myself. He runs Fire Flies, the outdoor gear and sporting-goods shop in town. He was there with his store manager. Neither of them saw a thing.”
I was still studying the floor plan. “You’ve placed Dr. Hawksworthy and Isla Ferris on either side of the clock.” I straightened.
“That’s where they said they were just before the shot was fired,” Varma said.
“But that’s not right. I mean, they were there, but when the mechanical figures actually began their progression, they moved away into the crowd.”
Okoje handed me a pencil. “Mark an X on the plan where you think they were.”
“I don’t know exactly. Everyone was watching the clock. But I know Dr. Hawksworthy moved this way and Isla that way.” I drew two small arrows from the original squares of paper toward the edges of the crowd on the left and right respectively.
I looked at the layout again. Something else wasn’t right, but I couldn’t think what it was. Were the squares of paper too close together, or was it something else? “I’m sorry,” I told Okoje. “I wish I could be more helpful.”
“You’ve done fine,” Okoje said. “But if you think of anything—”
I smiled at him. “I’ll let you know.”
The Museum of Devon Life was literally jumping. A group of what looked like twelve- or thirteen-year-olds were on a field trip—the girls looking years older in the latest gear and makeup; the boys struggling to control their long limbs and clownishly oversized feet. Having raised two teenagers, I remembered those days—the moodiness, the concern about body image, the peer pressure.
A group of boys lurched past me, nearly knocking me off balance.
“Sorry, miss,” said one of the boys, then to the culprit, “Mind where yer goin’, tosser.”
They careened off.
Isla Ferris appeared. “Sorry, Kate. We’ve got the lower sixth formers from St. Andrew’s in Totnes today. They’re headed out soon, thank goodness.”
“Tom and I do plan to attend the program tonight. I thought I’d prepare by having a look at the Romani and Travellers exhibit. You’re a wonderful guide, but if you’re busy, I can wander through on my own.”
“Today’s perfect.” She looked delighted. “I’m glad you’re coming tonight. Our speakers are two of the most prominent Romani leaders in the West Country. You’ll have a chance to ask questions.”
“We’re looking forward to it.”
I followed her up the staircase to the first floor, where a large space was labeled Gypsies, Romanies & Travellers: Devon’s Oldest Cultural Minorities. The centerpiece of the exhibit was a colorful wooden caravan, perhaps sixteen feet long, painted red with lavish detailing and gold trim. “It’s beautiful,” I said. “Yvie Innes at the Crown told me they’re called vardos.”
“The best of the surviving examples date from the late-nineteenth and early-twentieth centuries—what the Romanichals affectionately call ‘the wagon time.’” Isla directed my attention to a poster showing the various configurations. “Ours is a Reading vardo, which refers to the shape, like a miniature train car, and the maker, Dunton & Sons of Reading. The interior is quite spacious. Take a look. I think you’ll be impressed.”
What impressed me was Isla’s knowledge. I climbed the access stairs and peered inside the vardo. At the rear was a built-in box bed, lavishly made with lace-trimmed sheets and a colorful quilt. Windows were hung with rich red velvet panels trimmed with gold fringe. Along the right side were benches with built-in storage, several wall-hung cupboards, and an armoire of carved wood, the designs accented with more gold paint. The left side of the wagon had been fitted with a vented stove, above which, on wooden shelving, stood a collection of colorful Gaudy Welsh pottery. “That must be the teapot Dr. Hawksworthy mentioned,” I said, indicating a particularly attractive example. “He’s right. It’s very like the one Gideon Littlejohn found with the dress.”
“Every aspect of the vardo was intended to showcase the wealth of the owner, and thus his status. The gilding you see, inside and outside, was applied simply for the sake of opulence and beauty.”
“You must feel privileged to own such a fine example.”
Isla nodded her agreement. “Most surviving vardos, the authentic ones, reside in museums or private collections. We’re fortunate to have this one at all, because traditionally, when the owner died, the vardo and all the deceased’s personal possessions, even valuable objects like china and jewelry, were burned.”
“Interesting, then, that the collection of objects Littlejohn found in the trunk seems to have a Romani connection. And I’m still trying to figure out what they had to do with a lacemaker.”
“I agree. It doesn’t make sense. The Dartmoor clans didn’t mix with the settled population—at least not socially. I wish I could help.”
“I hope to speak with the research librarian at the library later today. She’s been collecting information for me about the Romani camps on Dartmoor.”
“Maggie Hughes.” Isla rolled her eyes. “Don’t believe everything she says.”
The comment was so unexpected, I spoke before my brain kicked in. “But didn’t she help you last year? Julia Kelly said something about a medieval document that proved to be a fake?”
“Helped?” Twin red blotches bloomed on Isla’s cheeks. “She was lucky. All right, there were discrepancies, but Hugo would have found them. Maggie has no idea how busy he is, how many projects he juggles every day—keeping the board happy, managing the funds, creating publicity”—she rolled her hand—“overseeing the displays, applying for grants, conducting research. No one can do everything at once.” She took a breath.
“Of course not,” I said, before she could continue. “I didn’t mean to imply—”
“No.” She held up both hands. “My fault. It’s just that woman gets right up my nose. Implying that Hugo was lacking in some way. How dare she, a village librarian, criticize someone with an academic record like Hugo’s?”
I couldn’t think of a single thing to say.
“I’m sorry,” Isla said. “I must get back to my office. Feel free to wander around.”
I watched her march off. Isla definitely had a trigger, and I’d just pulled it.
“I was hoping you’d stop by today.” Maggie Hughes placed the stack of books she’d been carrying on a rolling cart. “I’m sorry, Kate. I couldn’t find any information about the graves at Widdecombe Throop. I’m still looking. And I wasn’t able to learn anything at all about William Tucker in the census records. There were lots of Tuckers in England, but none with a birth year of 1885 or 1886 and a mother named Sally. That doesn’t mean he isn’t there. Lots of people lied about their pasts for lots of reasons. Some simply didn’t want to be counted.”
“I know what you mean. Every time the census taker came round, my great-grandmother shaved a couple of years off her age.”
Maggie laughed. “Good for her. I did find something you’ll be interested in, though. Come. I’ll show you.”
I followed her through the stacks to the same conference room we’d used earlier. She strode ahead, excited by what she’d found.
“I should apologize,” I said as Maggie booted up her computer. “Julia Kelly at the museum told me you spotted anachronisms in a forged medieval commentary. I’m afraid I mentioned it to Isla Hughes.”
“Yes, I see.” Maggie gray eyes looked amused. “Then you’ll know I’m not her favorite person. Not that I mind. She’s completely obsessed with the museum—or should I say with the museum director?” She gave me a wry smile. “What was I meant to do when the Bede commentary was an obvious forgery? Let it go for the sake of appearances? I couldn’t do that.”
“Of course you couldn’t.” I was interested to hear Maggie’s version of the incident. “Why hadn’t Hugo caught the anachronisms himself?”
“Why indeed? It wasn’t even a sophisticated forgery. All I saw were the two pages on exhibit, and there they were—words invented by Shakespeare nine hundred years after Bede’s death. I spotted them because I’d done my thesis on the words Shakespeare coined and their likely etymology.”
“To be fair, Hugo isn’t a Shakespearean scholar.”
“No.” Her mouth compressed in a disapproving line. “Neither am I. The point is, Kate, he didn’t check. He didn’t call in experts on medieval paleography, which he should have done. He wanted the manuscript to be real, so that’s how he presented it to the museum board. They went along with it because Hugo’s supposed to know these things.”
“How did Hugo take it?”
“Embarrassed—chagrined. That’s the kind of miscalculation that could have marred his professional reputation. Nobody wanted that, least of all me, so we kept it private. We’re still keeping it private.” Maggie tapped a few keys on the computer. “I will say Hugo owned his mistake right away. Isla’s the problem. She thinks I’m waiting for an opportunity to damage Hugo’s reputation. I assure you, I’m not.”
“But the forgery still troubles you.”
“Of course.” Her computer screen lit up. “Anyone can make a mistake, but I think Hugo’s eagerness to make a name for himself clouded his judgment. I just hope he’s learned his lesson.” She tapped a few more keys and pulled up an old photograph in black and white—a group of dark-haired men rounding up ponies. The men wore what looked like woolen trousers and jackets. Most wore flat caps. Some had scarves tied around their necks. The ponies had compact, sturdy bodies with broad chests and small, neat heads.
“Are the men Romanies?” I asked.
“That’s right. I found the photograph in a news article on an upcoming horse auction near Totnes in September of 1881. Finding reliable sources on Romani culture in Devon isn’t easy. They avoided scrutiny, a tendency shaped by centuries of racism and persecution. They left few written records. What has been written by outsiders is often filled with exaggeration, stereotypes, romanticism, and prejudice. Photographs are often the best source of history—moments in time, captured forever.” Maggie touched my arm. “Don’t look now. We’re being observed.”
A small boy peered at us through the glass, made a face, and ducked below the half-wall.
“Ignore him, little monkey.” She pulled up another photograph. “Most of the camps in Devon were near Teignmouth or Plymouth, but in the 1880s there were several private landowners on Dartmoor who allowed Romanichals to camp on their land in spring in exchange for help with the livestock and the Dartmoor pony herds—surveying the population and checking the ponies for injuries or diseases they might have picked up over the winter.”
“So they arrived in spring and stayed until when?”
“Autumn. After the Drift, they were gone.”
“The Drift?”
“For generations, the Dartmoor ponies have been rounded up in an annual autumn event known as the Drift. New foals are claimed by their owners. Some are branded and returned to the moor. Others are auctioned off. The Drift has always been a social event as much as a commercial one, but animal-rights organizations have long argued that the experience is traumatic for the wild ponies, some of whom are young and have been forcibly separated from their mothers. It probably is. They’ve also worried that buyers aren’t properly vetted, and they’ve been concerned about overbreeding. Now the yearly auction is carefully monitored, with a focus on the well-being of the animals. My point is the Romani men would help with the Drift and then move on until the following spring.”
Maggie clicked again, and the photo on the computer screen changed to what looked like a family portrait taken outside a vardo similar to the one I’d seen in the museum. A group of individuals, perhaps twelve in all—men, women, and children—surrounded an imposing-looking elderly woman sitting on the wagon’s footboard, her booted feet on the shafts. She was wearing a dark mutton-sleeve dress and what looked like a man’s porkpie hat. Bracelets, probably gold, encircled her wrists. And she had on some sort of necklace. It was hard to see the details.
“This is the prize, Kate—an actual photograph of the Squires family. Their camp was on land near Hexworthy, along the banks of the Dart. That’s Queenie, the matriarch, in the middle—a colorful character by all accounts. You probably know the village tearoom was named after her. I’m pretty excited to have found the photo, which is rare. It took some digging in the archives.”
Words printed in white ink along the bottom of the photo read August 1884. “Yvie Innes at the Crown told me a little about Queenie Squires,” I said. The photo was grainy, but it would have been hard to miss the expression on the old lady’s face—stern, proud of her clan, secure in her place in the family. “Was her husband gone by this time?”
“Long gone. He died in a farm accident in the 1820s, and Queenie took over as leader of the clan. Unusual for a woman, but I suppose it speaks to the force of her personality. Before her husband died, she’d produced a daughter and a son. By the time this photograph was taken, Queenie had seven grandchildren and four great-grandchildren. Seems only a part of the family was present that day. The names are on the reverse side.” She zoomed in a little. “That’s Queenie in the middle, the old woman. The man on her right is her son Leverin and his wife Daisy. Their son, Tawno, is in front with his wife, Cleopatra, and their three children.”
Tawno Squires was a muscular man, perhaps thirty-something, with the thick neck and huge arms of someone used to physical labor. A small boy stood next to him, clasping his leg. His wife held an infant wrapped in a shawl. Next to her was a girl of perhaps ten or eleven.
“On the left are Queenie’s daughter, Naomi, and her husband, Elias Heron,” Maggie said. “The good-looking young man sitting on the wagon tongue is their son, Luke.”
Young Luke Heron stared directly into the camera, his regular features, thick black hair, and piercing light eyes visible even in the poor-quality image.
“The eyes grab you, don’t they?” Maggie said. “Light eyes were an unusual feature among the Romanichals but not unknown.”
“Where was the rest of the family?”
“I don’t know. A few of the grandsons may have been out working. It’s interesting that Naomi and her husband are there. Romani women typically joined their husband’s family, so maybe they were visiting. Or maybe Naomi stayed with her mother because of her advanced age.” Maggie pushed her glasses farther up on her nose. “Are you and your husband planning to attend the program at the museum tonight? I’ve heard the speakers before. Powerful.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.” I looked up from the monitor. “Do you know where the Squires family camped?”
“Sure. I’ll pull up the online Ordnance Survey.” While she was doing that, she continued speaking. “As I said, Queenie Squires was a fascinating character—something of a legend in Devon. She lived well into her eighties and ruled her clan with an iron fist. She had high standards and expected her sons and grandsons and their wives to maintain those standards—honesty, order, cleanliness, respect for the past, respect for the land and the animals.”
Outside the conference room, the little boy was making faces again, crossing his eyes as he pulled at the corners of his mouth and stuck out his tongue.
“That’s Jack Hedge.” Maggie stuck her own tongue out at the boy. “Too much energy for one little body. A bright boy. His mum’s a doctoral student, so they come here a couple of afternoons a week so she can do research.” She tapped the online map with a fingernail. “There—see that large open area just west of the Dart tributary? That’s approximately where the Squires family camped every year.”
“Could you zoom out a little?” I asked. “Interesting. The camp isn’t far from the old village of Widdecombe Throop.”
“Yes. Submerged now in that reservoir—the blue shaded area there. The owner of the land thereabouts was Sir Henry Merivale, one of the wealthiest Dartmoor landowners at the time—excepting the Crown, of course. He had a large estate near Widdecombe Throop—Merivale House.”
I thought of the gorgeous red silk dress I’d just seen. If Nancy Thorne’s sister, Sally, made dresses for wealthy local women, she might very well have sewn for the Merivales. They would have been thrilled with a dressmaker trained in the finest French techniques. “Merivale House is underwater too, I suppose.”
“No, actually, it’s not. Run-down a bit now—well, quite a bit if I’m honest. Lady Helen Merivale still lives there. Heaven knows what will happen to the house when she dies. She offers tours these days to bring in a little extra income.”
“Oh? When are the tours?” I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but if Lady Helen Merivale was anything like my friend, Lady Barbara Finchley-fforde, she might have a keen interest in her family’s history. And she might remember hearing about a dressmaker named Sally Tucker. She might even have been the woman who donated the red silk dress.
“There’s a Merivale House brochure in the lobby. Ask the librarian on duty.”
Outside the conference room, Jack Hedge was bouncing up and down like a jack-in-the-box. A young woman, his mother, I presumed, finally noticed. She rushed over, grabbed him by the arm, and led him away.
Good luck, Mom.
On my way out, I picked up a brochure for Merivale House.
In the car, I phoned Tom’s mobile and left a message:
Remember, tonight’s the program at the museum, 7pm. Free for a road trip tomorrow? I may finally have a lead on the dress.