It was just after three thirty when two American couples entered the residents’ lounge. They smiled at me, and I got the feeling they were about to strike up a conversation—a conversation that would inevitably begin by asking me where I was from. Near Cleveland? Really? Do you happen to know the Martins? They live in Chagrin Falls. I wasn’t in the mood, so before they had a chance to ask, I got up, gave them a brief smile, and returned to our room on the first floor.
Tom would be back from the police enquiry office by five. I had a lot to tell him, and I hoped he would have news for me as well—like Okoje’s permission to enter the Old Merchant’s House. I needed to examine that trunk, and I wanted to search for records that might reveal where Littlejohn had gotten it. Why was it taking so long? It had been six days since the death of Gideon Littlejohn, and they still weren’t allowing anyone inside the house—even the Nixons, according to Tom. Which reminded me of the question I’d wanted to ask Donna.
Pulling out my phone, I dialed the Nixons’ number. Luckily, Donna was home.
“It’s Kate Hamilton,” I said when she answered. “This may seem like an odd question, but are you and your brother related, even distantly, to the Thorne family?”
“Never heard of ’em.”
“How about the Merivales?”
She snorted. “That’ll be the day.” At least she knew who they were.
When I asked about a connection to the Romani Travellers on Dartmoor, she went momentarily silent.
“Now that’s an odd question, Kate. What makes you ask?”
“No reason,” I lied. “Just curious.”
“Our father was a Little. It’s a Scottish surname, but his people have lived in Exeter for generations—scoundrels, the lot of ’em. Our mother was a Chilcott from up around Tiverton way, but she was orphaned as a child and brought up by a foster family, the Greens.”
I thanked her and checked my messages to see if I’d missed a call from Mercy Abbott. I hadn’t. If she didn’t call soon, I’d have to contact Max Newlin at the Agatha Christie festival again.
Tom returned to the Crown at five. I saw a gleam in his eye. “Something happened today, didn’t it?”
He grinned. “I’ll tell you everything, but let’s have a glass of wine first. I need to unwind.”
In the bar, we took the comfy chairs near the window and ordered. “How did your day go?” he asked. “Learn anything from Beryl Grey?”
“Nothing except she tells slightly different stories about the chain of events the day of the murder. And she made a big point once again of saying she arrived at the Old Merchant’s House that day at precisely twelve noon.”
“Did she now?” His smile broadened. “You don’t believe her?”
“I wouldn’t go that far. But neither would I take what she says at face value. She as good as admitted that Littlejohn accused her of theft and threatened to fire her. I think she was taking advantage of him financially.”
“And stealing the odd silver box when she could?”
“I don’t know. It’s just weird. She didn’t want me coming to the house because she says her husband can become violent. She made it sound like dementia. Yet when she worked for Littlejohn, she had no problem leaving him home all day on his own.”
“The police were at the Greys’ house this morning. Before you met her at Queenie’s.”
“No wonder she was on edge. Did they meet her husband?”
“They didn’t exactly meet him. When they got to the house, Alan Grey was sitting in an old armchair, covered with a blanket. Varma described him as an elderly man with thick gray hair and a full beard. He was mumbling to himself, not making sense. Beryl Grey told the police her husband was unpredictable and warned them not to disturb him.”
“That’s why she insisted we meet at Queenie’s.”
“We should pay a visit to the Greys ourselves,” Tom said. “Catching people off guard is a useful technique.”
“Would Okoje approve?”
“Oh, yes. I think he would.” I saw the gleam again. There was something he wasn’t telling me.
Yvie Innes delivered our wine. She stood there for a moment, perhaps hoping we’d ask her to join us. When we didn’t, she wished us a pleasant evening and left.
“How did you spend the day?” I asked.
“Mostly viewing Littlejohn’s videos. There are well over two hundred, all on YouTube—all about living the Victorian lifestyle. PC Doaks, poor sod, has been tasked with viewing the lot.” Tom crossed his long legs, resting one ankle on the opposite knee. “Littlejohn had a surprising number of followers.”
“I’d like to see some of the videos.”
“We can do that tonight.” He gave me a cheeky grin. “Great bedtime viewing.”
Outside the window, a flock of glossy purple starlings in their white-speckled winter plumage swooped onto the lawn. They pecked at the grass, hoping to rouse the insects wintering there. Tom leaned back in his chair. “What else happened today?”
“I phoned Donna Nixon. They aren’t related to the Thornes or the Merivales and had no connection with the Romanies on Dartmoor. And I had tea with Clare Jamieson.” I told him about our conversation. “She says Quinn is super protective of Teddy’s reputation and will do anything to prove her father wrong about him.”
“We witnessed that ourselves.”
“The most interesting bit of information today was an account of Queenie Squires’ death and funeral. Written by a doctor who tried to save her. Maggie Hughes from the library sent it over.”
“What did you learn?”
“I learned that the family sort of fell apart after her death. There was a disagreement at the funeral—gunshots fired. And no”—I held up my hand—“before you ask, no one was injured. No bloodshed and no mention of Nancy Thorne. After Queenie died, the Squires family never returned to this part of Devon.”
Tom slid a finger slowly around the rim of his wineglass.
I gave him an exaggerated eye roll. “Tom, I know something happened today. Just come out with it before I die of curiosity.”
“All right.” He grinned. “I was going to tell you. First, though, you can get into Littlejohn’s house tomorrow. You’re free to look around before they release it to the Nixons.”
“Excellent. Tomorrow, then. And the second thing?”
“The museum has agreed to allow a small piece of the bloodstained fabric to be removed from the dress, and they’ve agreed to pay for a private lab that will, for a fee, move our test to the top of the queue. Let’s just hope the sample hasn’t degraded too much over the years. The DNA test is scheduled for Tuesday, the fourteenth. We should have the results in a week.”
“Will we still be here? We do have to go home sometime, you know.”
“If we leave before the results are in, we’ll just add the DNA results to our final report.”
“I hope they can tell if the blood is human.”
“Maybe Nancy Thorne came upon an injured animal or something.”
“And was so traumatized that she suffered amnesia? Come on, Tom.”
He shrugged. “At any rate, we should know something definitive, even if it’s just that the DNA is too degraded to be of use.” He leaned back, humming under his breath.
Why was I getting the impression he was waiting to deliver a punch line? “What else happened? I know there’s more.”
“An interesting new piece of evidence. A lady who lives three doors down from the Old Merchant’s House swears she saw Beryl Grey arrive the morning of the murder.”
“And?”
“And it wasn’t twelve noon.”
An hour later, after Tom and I had changed clothes, we ordered our food at the Crown’s crowded little bar. The bartender, who knew us by now, had our favorite drinks waiting for us. When the food was ready, Yvie Innes showed us to our table. Unbelievably, I was hungry.
“Is the neighbor a reliable witness, do you think?” I asked.
“Seemed pretty sharp to me.” Tom spread his napkin on his lap. “She’s somewhere in her mideighties and has an elderly dachshund with bladder problems. She was outside, waiting for him to do his business, when she saw Beryl Grey arrive on foot.”
“Except it wasn’t noon.”
“No. It was a few minutes before nine AM and still pretty dark, but she had no trouble recognizing the housekeeper. She’d seen her before in her costume.”
“Was Clive Nixon in his car?”
“She saw a dark sedan parked on the street. Didn’t know anyone was inside.”
“Are you saying the figure Clive saw at Littlejohn’s door was Beryl Grey?”
“No. That had to be later, because Clive told Donna the sun was shining when he saw someone at Littlejohn’s front door. And the neighbor says the housekeeper walked around the rear of the house as usual. She didn’t go to the front door at all.”
“Did the neighbor see anyone else?”
“Unfortunately not. Herman—that’s the dachshund—finished what he’d come to do, and they went back inside.”
“What did Beryl Grey say—assuming the police have had a chance to ask her?”
“They have. They phoned her. She says the neighbor woman is mistaken—‘halfway round the bend’ were her exact words. She swears once again that she arrived precisely at noon and the woman was either confused about the time or trying to make trouble. Apparently they’d had a few run-ins over Herman doing his business on Gideon Littlejohn’s front walk.”
“Tom …,” I said slowly. An idea had formed in my brain. “I know I’ve said this before, but what if Beryl Grey was the killer after all? She was there. She was covered in blood. And she had a motive—to prevent Littlejohn from telling the police about the silver box.”
“Was he going to press charges?”
“She says the Nixons made that up, but then she would, wouldn’t she? We only have her word for it that she found him already dead. And now we have an eyewitness who saw her arrive earlier than she said.”
“But we heard her scream. If she shot him, why would she draw attention to herself?”
“It’s a point.”
“Another reason we should talk with her again, informally.”
“She’s not going to confess to us.”
“No, but she might tell us something the police can use.”
“What if she sees us as a threat?”
“That’s why we’re going together. You’re not threatening. What we need is a reason to show up at her house. Something logical—a question you forgot to ask before, maybe. Mention the neighbor in passing. I’ll stay in the background. You have a way of getting people to tell you things. It’s those innocent blue eyes of yours.”
“Don’t let them fool you.” I winked. “So we show up on her doorstep tomorrow?”
“No—I think we let her stew about things for a day or two.”
“About the Old Merchant’s House,” I said, changing the subject. “Okoje said something earlier—when we went to the police enquiry office that first time. He asked if Littlejohn owned something of value. Is that what he’s hoping I can tell him?”
“I think he’s hoping you’ll notice something they didn’t—or didn’t recognize as important. Anything, really. It’s been almost a week since Littlejohn’s death, and they still don’t have any credible leads.”
“They found nothing at all in the house? What about the stuff he bought at auction?”
“Varma said it’s mostly junk, but you’re free to take a look.”
“I could be wrong, but I don’t think Littlejohn was killed for his possessions. He wasn’t a collector. The objects he purchased were for practical use, and so far I’ve seen nothing more than a hundred and fifty years old.”
“Practically brand-new in the UK.”
“I want to see that trunk. I want to find out where he got the dress.”
Tom nodded slowly. “And why he lied about it.”