Sunday, January 12
The bells of St. Petroc’s rang out an exuberant recessional. A damp, chilly wind was blowing. Tom and I stopped at the door of the church to shake hands with the vicar. His cheeks were pink with the cold, but his eyes were friendly and his handshake firm.
Tom put his arm around me as we walked back to the Crown. “Ready to explore the Old Merchant’s House?”
“More than ready.”
Back in our room, I changed into a pair of black jeans, a pullover, and a pair of white trainers. If I was going to poke around inside the Old Merchant’s House, I needed to be comfortable. As I was brushing my hair into a ponytail, I heard Tom’s mobile buzz.
Tom appeared in the doorway. “That was Okoje. He wants me to spend a couple of hours at the police enquiry office this afternoon. Will you be all right at the Old Merchant’s House on your own?”
“Sure. What’s up?”
“Constable Doaks flagged several of Littlejohn’s videos. Okoje and his team are planning to view them to see if they provide a motive for his murder.”
“That’s unlikely—unless some environmentalist found out he was surreptitiously burning coal. Of course, as my mother says, Sometimes the moon turns blue.”
Tom laughed. “What does that mean?”
“It means that sometimes the unexpected happens. Unlikely doesn’t mean impossible.”
“No, it doesn’t. That’s why the police will continue to pore over every available resource until the cyberforensics team manages to crack his computer. Oh, and Okoje said the key is in a lockbox. The code is 4785. Stands for God Save The King on the alphanumeric keypad, in case you forget.”
“Clever.”
Tom left on foot. I grabbed my warm jacket and the keys to our Range Rover and headed for the Old Merchant’s House.
I parked on the street, several houses down from Gideon Littlejohn’s experiment in time travel. Turning the key in the lock, I felt a flutter of anticipation.
Standing in the entrance hall, I thought about our first visit and the initial shock of seeing Beryl Grey in her Victorian housekeeper’s getup. She’d said it was like being in a play. Today the place looked like a darkened stage after a premature closing, except for the obvious signs of police activity—drawers left partially open, a coating of dark-gray fingerprint powder on every surface.
I flipped the toggle switch on the wall. Flame-shaped electric bulbs lit up the wall sconces. Would Littlejohn have eventually replaced them with gas? Was that even legal today?
I began in the morning room, the octagonal room at the back of the house where I’d first seen the trunk. There it was, still in the alcove, half hidden by the draperies. I opened the lid and found the quilt still tucked neatly inside. Excellent. The quilt, with its exquisite workmanship, pleasing design, and vibrant, well-placed colors, was a work of art. It deserved to be displayed in the museum. I hoped Donna Nixon would agree.
The trunk itself was a standard nineteenth-century trunk meant for railway or carriage journeys—not the kind a wealthy woman would have owned but a plain oaken trunk with a domed lid, iron strapping, and handles. I knew from experience that these trunks were relatively inexpensive and usually lined with paper or even newsprint. This one, however, was beautifully lined with a padded fabric in a rose-and-green vine print on a soft yellow ground.
I laid the quilt on the sofa and stared into the empty trunk. I’d hoped to find a nameplate or some other kind of identification, but there was nothing to tell me who had owned it, except for the lining, which was not only in wonderful condition for its age but had been meticulously fitted and sewn. By the same hand that had produced the calico dress, the quilt, and the red silk ballgown? It sure looked like it to me.
I pulled the lighted magnifier out of my handbag and examined the lining fabric more closely. The trunk hadn’t come from the manufacturer this way. The padded lining had been added later. I ran my hand along the fabric on the sides and bottom of the trunk’s interior. The smooth cotton had been filled with a fine material, probably cotton or wool batting. Along the edges, I could feel a framework of wooden slats and the tiny brads—small wire nails used to secure the fabric in place. The brads had been concealed with a fine, fabric-covered welting, attached with stitches so tiny they were virtually invisible. I wasn’t an expert like Julia Kelly, but I felt pretty confident this was the work of Sally Tucker née Thorne. If I was right, the same hand had produced the trunk lining, the quilt, and the bloodstained dress. That meant I could make a convincing circumstantial case for the bloodstained dress having belonged to one of the Thorne sisters—most likely Nancy, if the newspaper account was accurate. Dr. Hawksworthy would be thrilled, but would it really be enough to warrant attribution? The question remained: How had the trunk come into Gideon Littlejohn’s possession, and why had he wanted to conceal that information?
Exploring further, I found a fabric tab under the domed lid that, when pulled down, revealed a lined tray divided into several compartments. The perfect place to conceal cash, travel documents, and jewelry. I went over every inch with my lighted magnifier. Stuck in the corner of one of the compartments were several tiny jet beads. It looked like they’d come from the broken choker necklace I’d seen at the museum. A hazy memory floated away before I could grab it. Using my fingernails, I retrieved the jet beads and put them in one of the zipper compartments in my handbag in case Julia Kelly want to try restringing the choker.
Pulling out my cell phone, I called Tom.
“Everything all right?” He sounded worried.
“Everything’s fine. I’m wondering if DCI Okoje would let me take the trunk back to the Crown. I’d like to have Julia Kelly at the museum take a look.”
“He’s right here. I’ll ask.” I heard muffled conversation before Tom came back on the line. “Technically, the trunk belongs to the Nixons, but Okoje says you can have it for another few days. Is it heavy? Do you need help?”
“I can manage. Tell him thank-you.”
“Have you found a reason to contact Beryl Grey?”
“Not yet. I’ll keep looking.”
“See you at the Crown around five.”
I checked my watch. “I’ll be finished well before then. Why don’t I walk down and meet you at the enquiry office at five?”
“Perfect. I’d like to try that Thai restaurant on the High Street tonight.”
After disconnecting, I refolded the quilt, placed it carefully inside the trunk, and carried the whole thing to the Rover, sliding it onto the rear seat. Then I went back into the house and spent some time simply enjoying the lovely architectural details and tight floor plan. Every room in a Victorian house had its own specific purpose—no open-plan concepts in that era. I also checked the furniture, floorboards, and wall panels for the hidden spaces the Victorians loved so much. I remembered my father saying once that if you haven’t found a secret compartment in a Victorian house, you haven’t looked carefully enough. Sadly, I didn’t find any. DS Varma had been right about the items in the cellar, though. Besides some very pretty Victorian bathroom fixtures, the lot Littlejohn had purchased at auction was mostly junk. He must have bought it specifically for the cooker, which would probably never be restored now.
Seeing the cooker reminded me of the high-ceilinged kitchen. If I was going to find a convincing reason to contact Beryl Grey, that’s where I’d find it—in her domain. And, sure enough, there in the corner of a rough oak corner cabinet was a Waitrose loyalty card in the name of Beryl Grey and an envelope containing £47.50 in cash and marked Reimbursement for Groceries. She would want the card and the cash, which meant we had a perfect excuse to drop them off at her house.
There was only one room left—the study. It was more of an alcove, really, off the parlor. Dark oak bookshelves flanked an ornate, marbleized slate mantelpiece. The books were old, and a quick glance suggested they’d been bought by the yard to give the impression their owner was an educated man of leisure. Several pieces of furniture stood on the parquet floor, but I was most interested in a mahogany secretary with glazed panel doors and an embossed green leather writing surface. The secretary was probably where Littlejohn had kept personal correspondence and financial records. I was proven right when I found one of the large exterior drawers filled with receipts. Other exterior drawers held several old-fashioned accounting ledgers, a checkbook, a supply of elegant writing paper, bottles of ink, antique steel-nib pens, and a brass-and-wood rocking blotter. Nothing that related to the dress.
Well, shoot.
Then I pulled out one of the small interior drawers and stared in amazement.
The policy enquiry office in Coombe Mallet was hardly more than a public waiting room. One of the community support officers, a woman in dark trousers and a black shirt with blue epaulettes, showed me into the inner sanctum. That’s where I found Tom, staring at a computer screen. “Ready to go,” I asked, “or do you need more time?”
“Hello, darling. No—I’m ready.” Tom grabbed his jacket. “I’ve been thinking about chicken satay all day.”
“Don’t forget the umbrella. It’s drizzling again.”
We headed for Taste of Siam, the local Thai restaurant located halfway between the police enquiry office and the Crown. Tom held the umbrella as we tried to coordinate our steps. Not easy with his long strides.
“Did you learn anything from the videos?” I asked.
“No, but ask me anything about Victorian life—anything at all.”
I took his arm. “I have a confession. I’m looking forward to one of those exotic cocktails with the little umbrellas.”
He laughed. “I wouldn’t mind that either, now you mention it. What we both need is a day off.”
“I don’t think we’re going to get one—not just yet. Look what I found in Littlejohn’s desk.”
I pulled a sheet of paper out of my handbag, holding it up so it wouldn’t get rained on. It wasn’t Littlejohn’s elegant writing paper with the engraved monogram but a half sheet of computer paper on which a series of words had been penned in a slanting, cursive copperplate.
Nancy Thorne is a murderess.
The blood of Nancy Thorne’s victim.
Dress belonging to the murderess Nancy Thorne.
Dress belonging to Nancy Thorne, a murderess.
The last phrase, exactly as Dr. Hawksworthy described it on the note pinned to the dress, had been written five times. “It’s his handwriting,” I said. “I compared it to his financial ledgers.”
“Why would he write all that?” Tom asked.
“He was practicing,” I said. “Trying to get it right—the wording, the ink, the cursive. I know he’d been experimenting with copperplate. I saw similar examples in his check ledger.”
“You mean Gideon Littlejohn wrote the note pinned to the dress himself?” Tom shook his head.
“Hawksworthy said it was a fake—a pretty good one. The faded ink and the paper looked authentic at first glance.”
“How did Hawksworthy know the note was a fake?”
“Littlejohn tried too hard. Made it look too perfect.”
“Was he hoping to generate interest in his videos? Nothing like a historical mystery. In 2016 he monetized them with advertisements. A video about a bloodstained dress and a murderous Victorian lacemaker strikes me as perfect clickbait. ”
“Did he make a podcast about the dress?”
“We didn’t find one.”
“If he wanted publicity, he could have insisted the dress be on display at the gala—with a big sign saying he’d donated it.”
Tom nodded slowly. “If not for publicity, why forge the note?”
We’d arrived at the restaurant and ducked inside. Tom shook off our umbrella and added it to the jumble at the door. The light scent of jasmine and sandalwood hit our noses, and the soft sound of water cascading down a slate wall instantly banished the wind and the cold rain outside. We were somewhere warm and relaxing. Once seated, we ordered chicken satay and spring rolls as starters.
“Again, why would Littlejohn forge the note? What did he have to gain?” Tom asked.
“I’ve been thinking about that. If he wasn’t trying to impress his followers, maybe he wanted to impress one person—Hugo Hawksworthy.”
A pretty young Asian woman delivered our starters—house specialties that were probably always ready to go.
“What do you mean?’” Tom dipped a spring roll into the hot mustard sauce.
“What I mean is this,” I said, trying to think logically as my mother had taught me. “We saw the dress and the bloodstains, right? And we read the script of a radio documentary produced years later. But what made everyone think the two were related? The note. Without the note, there was nothing to connect them. The dress could have belonged to anyone. A midwife, for example.”
“I see what you mean.” Tom’s eyes were watering. “Wow—that sauce is hot.” He took a long drink of water.
Our waitress, wearing a traditionally patterned silk sarong and matching shawl, delivered our cocktails with, yes, small paper umbrellas.
“We now believe the bloodstained dress belonged to one of the Thorne sisters,” I said, “because Julia Kelly noticed similarities in the construction of that dress and the red silk ballgown donated by a member of the Merivale family. Lady Helen Merivale told us about the seamstress from Widdecombe Throop and her sister, a lacemaker who was hired to produce lace for a wedding dress but was subsequently fired for some kind of impropriety.” I took one of the satay skewers and forked the chicken onto my plate.
“And it was you who noticed the acorn and bird’s-foot trefoil motifs in the lace collar attached to the bloodstained dress. But all that happened after we arrived.”
“Exactly. Until we made the connection between the Merivales and the Thorne sisters, we knew nothing for sure. And yet Littlejohn knew—don’t ask me how—and decided to write the note.” I dipped a piece of chicken in the peanut sauce.
“To persuade Hawksworthy to fund an investigation to prove it?”
“That’s the only thing that makes sense,” I said between bites. “Somehow Littlejohn knew the dress was Nancy Thorne’s but needed us to prove it. I think he counted on the fact that after the medieval commentary had been proven to be a forgery, Hawksworthy would do his due diligence. He couldn’t afford to take another chance.”
“But why was it so important to Littlejohn that the dress be authenticated? What did he have to gain?”
“That’s the part we don’t know yet. We know he lied about the trunk. We saw it for ourselves in that podcast from 2017.”
Tom took one of the satay skewers and used it to punctuate his thoughts. “Littlejohn donated the dress, lied about where he got it, and forged the note so Hawksworthy would fund an investigation.”
“And now he’s dead.”
“Kate.” Tom put down the skewer. “We have no reason to believe his death had anything to do with the dress.”
“I know that,” I admitted. “It could be a coincidence. Still …”
“Sometimes the moon turns blue.” Tom smiled and scanned his menu. “Hawksworthy knew the note was a fake. I wonder if he suspected Littlejohn.”
“He didn’t tell me the note was a fake until I asked him to produce it. I’m going to ask Julia Kelly to examine the lining of the trunk. While I’m at the museum, I’ll tell Hawksworthy that Littlejohn wrote the note. See how he reacts.”
“Come on, let’s order. I’d like to spend time with you tonight—alone.” Tom gave me the half smile that never fails to melt my heart. “Maybe build a fire?”
“Or we could have another romantic evening watching video podcasts about living like a Victorian.”
Tom groaned. “Spare me.”
For the main course, we shared the house specialty, moo yang—grilled pork and vegetables with a spicy tamarind sauce—which was a good thing because there was plenty for two. The waitress had just dropped off the sweets menu when Tom’s phone pinged.
“It’s Okoje. Be right back.” Leaving the table, Tom moved into the lobby.
In minutes, he returned and threw four twenty-pound notes on the table. “Grab your jacket, Kate. There’s been an accident. Teddy Pearce is in hospital. Lucky to be alive.”