After leaving the museum, Tom and I checked into the Crown, a stunning fifteenth-century thatched inn in the center of the small market town of Coombe Mallet. We’d booked in for a week, courtesy of Nash & Holmes. After that, assuming we completed our investigation, we hoped to spend a week at Fouroaks, the country estate that had been in Tom’s family for generations. As Tom’s uncle Nigel was currently aboard the Eurostar, speeding his way toward his villa in the south of France, we’d have Fouroaks to ourselves. I was sorry not to have more time with Nigel. He was an old charmer, in the nicest possible way. But I was looking forward to exploring Fouroaks with Tom. He’d spent his summers there as a boy. The house, the grounds, and the nearby villages held so many fond memories for him. I wanted to share them.
After settling into our large and old-fashioned but comfortable room at the Crown, we spent an hour or so exploring Coombe Mallet. The small town, built on land rising from the River Dart, had a lovely old church, the remains of a motte-and-bailey castle, a winding High Street lined with shops, and a sixteenth-century guild hall built on the remains of a medieval priory.
As we walked, Tom said, “I wonder if either of the Thorne sisters married and had children. The dress may have been passed down from mother to daughter to granddaughter.”
“Oh, that would be way too easy.” I took his arm.
“All right, let’s hear your questions. I know you have some.”
“Okay, here’s one—why didn’t Nancy’s sister go to church that night?” I raised an eyebrow. “Here’s another—was Nancy ever examined by a doctor? The blood could have been her own.”
“Excellent questions. Which we’ll do our best to answer.”
“This case is going to take a lot of research.”
“Which begins tonight when we meet Gideon Littlejohn at the museum gala.”
At six, we dressed in the best we had—Tom in wool trousers and a sports jacket and me in the little black dress and heels I’d packed for the New Year’s Eve celebration at the Old Bell, a low-key event attended almost exclusively by locals.
An hour later we arrived at the museum, where it took us all of two seconds to realize we were decidedly underdressed. Dr. Hawksworthy had neglected to tell us the evening was black tie. Not that we could have done anything about it.
Inside the museum, the atrium shop had disappeared. A raised platform and a number of high-top tables had taken its place. A bar had been set up on the opposite side of the room. Long tables tucked into the alcoves were laid with fancy finger food. Servers in black trousers and white tuxedo shirts moved through the glittering crowd.
We spotted Hawksworthy at the bar with a group of older couples.
Seeing us, he excused himself and strode over. “Welcome back to the museum.”
“You’ve attracted quite a crowd,” Tom said.
“A testament to how much the new exhibit means to our community. The bloodstained dress is exactly what we need. Something ‘sexy’”—he put the word in air quotes—“as a draw.”
“If it’s genuine.”
“Of course—if it’s genuine.” A forced heartiness in Hawksworthy’s tone told me he was counting on the dress being genuine and us proving it. “When I was hired as director here, I promised to take the museum to the top of its field. With the help of the good people of Devon, that dream is about to become reality.”
I’d opened my mouth to offer my congratulations when a tall, dark-haired woman in a shimmery gold cocktail dress joined us. Handsome, middle-aged, full-bodied but fighting it. She’d obviously been listening to our conversation. She threaded her hand through Hawksworthy’s arm. His wife? “Did he tell you the Museum of Devon Life has been short-listed for Art Fund Museum of the Year?”
“Quite an honor,” Tom said.
“It takes a team.” Hawksworthy shot us a small, self-deprecating smile. “Tom, Kate, meet our assistant director, Isla Ferris. We couldn’t have done it without her.”
She flushed with pleasure. “Hugo’s being too modest, as usual. With his impressive credentials, Devon is very lucky to have him.” She looked at him adoringly. “First the prestigious museum studies program at the University of Glasgow, then a full scholarship for a doctoral program in heritage studies at Georgetown University in the States.”
“Isla,” Hawksworthy protested, “I don’t think the Mallorys are interested in my academic career.” He was obviously enjoying this immensely.
“But you returned to the UK,” Tom said.
“I was interning at the Smithsonian when I was offered the job with the Mary Rose. Hard to turn something like that down.”
“You have quite a record,” Tom said.
“Driven by a love for preserving our heritage.”
“Which is what he’s doing here.” Isla beamed. “Preserving our heritage. The gala tonight is important—not only the celebration of what we’ve accomplished, the new wing, but also a fundraiser for the proposed historic textiles exhibit.”
“We met Julia Kelly this afternoon,” I told Isla. “I was impressed by her expertise.”
“Yes.” Isla’s lips twitched slightly. “Nice girl.” She brushed an invisible piece of lint off the front of Hawksworthy’s jacket, a proprietary gesture.
Not his wife, but clearly more than a colleague. And she doesn’t mind us knowing it.
“The textiles project will require the support of individual donors—lots of them,” Hawksworthy said, “but we’re rather counting on a grant from ACED—Arts and Culture, East Devon. Our speaker tonight is our new MP. His support will be key.”
A silver-haired couple drew Hawksworthy aside. He excused himself, and we found ourselves alone with Isla Ferris.
“Has Gideon Littlejohn arrived?” Tom asked. “We’d like to meet him.”
“There he is now,” she said. “The man in the tailcoat and breeches.”
Gideon Littlejohn was tall, perhaps in his midforties, and well built, with a neat mustache and long muttonchop sideburns. He was dressed in a snug-fitting tailcoat over a patterned waistcoat, dark trousers, a white shirt with a standing collar, and a wide black silk cravat. He leaned on a silver-headed cane.
“Is he supposed to be Prince Albert or something?” I asked, meaning the prince consort, Queen Victoria’s husband.
Isla laughed. “This isn’t fancy dress, Kate. Gideon dresses like that all the time. He calls himself a historical re-creator.”
“What does he do for a living?” Tom asked.
“That’s the irony. He’s a freelance cybersecurity expert. One foot in the past, the other very much in the present. Come. I’ll introduce you.”
Seeing us, Gideon Littlejohn gave a little bow, making me feel as if I’d wandered into a television costume drama.
Isla lifted a glass of champagne from a tray. “Gideon, may I present the Mallorys—Tom and Kate.”
“A great pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Littlejohn bowed again. “Hugo told me you’ve come to authenticate the dress. Have you had a chance to see it yet?”
“We had a look this afternoon,” I said. “It’s certainly old, and the dark stains do look like blood. Whether the dress belonged to Nancy Thorne is another question—one we hoped you could help us answer.”
“At your service, madam.”
I didn’t know how to respond. Was he putting us on?
“How did you come to be in possession of the dress?” Tom asked.
“Purely by accident. I purchased an entire household—furniture, old kitchen and bath fittings, tools, books, all sorts—mid to late Victorian mostly, the property of an elderly man, never married, never threw anything away, lucky for me. I own a historic house in the village, the Old Merchant’s House. I’m slowly taking it back to its original condition—or as close as I can come. It’s not easy to find antique fixtures in restorable condition. I purchased the household mainly for the cast-iron woodburning range and the original Victorian bath and water closet. Everything else came along for the ride.”
“And the dress?” Tom asked.
“I found that in a trunk, neatly folded with a note saying it had once belonged to the murderess Nancy Thorne. Naturally, I was curious, so I did a little research. Then I contacted the museum.”
“Did you keep the note?”
“I gave it to Hugo along with the dress. I assume it will be part of the exhibit.”
A note? Hawksworthy hadn’t mentioned a note. “Did you find any personal papers, estate inventories, photo albums?”
Provenance, the history of an item—its chain of ownership—is most reliably determined by written documentation. When that isn’t possible, old photographs can help. Gideon Littlejohn had purchased a houseful of objects from a single source. If we could prove a connection between the owner of those items and Nancy Thorne, we might be able to document the history of the dress. Or come close enough to justify attribution. Someone had saved the dress, folded it carefully away. Who and why?
“There may be papers and photographs,” Littlejohn said. “I haven’t had time to sort through everything. You’re welcome to look.”
“We’d like to see the trunk,” Tom said.
“Of course.” Littlejohn tapped his cane on the floor. “My work keeps me pretty busy, but I do work from home and set my own schedule. You’re welcome to visit anytime you’d like.”
“The sooner the better,” Tom said.
“Well, then, how about tomorrow around eleven? I should be free.” Littlejohn removed his wire-rimmed glasses and began polishing the round lenses with a white linen handkerchief. “Number ten Park Terrace—just off the High Street.”