Tuesday, January 14
Maggie Hughes plunked a banker’s box on the table in the library’s glassed-walled conference room, raising a cloud of dust. She sneezed and fanned the air. “Dust and must—no wonder so many librarians develop allergies. I haven’t had time to go through this lot yet. We’ve been working on our Valentine’s Day exhibits. You know the kind of thing—romance novels, books with red covers, paper hearts.”
Maggie had emailed me early that morning, following up on my request for more information about the Squires family. I peered into the open box, seeing an assortment of old printed materials—notebooks, folders, brochures, flyers, magazines, and papers clipped together. “What is this?”
“Local history. Forty years ago our head librarian—deceased now, of course—decided to enhance the library’s local history section. She asked the community to donate books or papers of historical value.” She gave me an ironic smile. “Value is a relative term, isn’t it? Everyone in Coombe Mallet took the opportunity to clean out their attics. The library staff didn’t have the resources to sort through everything then, so they did the best they could and stored the rest. You’re lucky these didn’t get sent to the county record office. This box is one of about a dozen. I’m afraid I can’t let you take the box away, but if you have the time, you’re more than welcome to look through it here.”
“Thank you. Does this box cover a particular time frame?” I was thinking about those twelve boxes and mentally calculating the hours it would take to sort through several centuries’ worth of detritus.
“Fortunately, yes.” Maggie pointed out a label on the side of the box that read 1850 to 1900. “That was one of the smartest things she did—setting out bins for materials, marked by date. Not everybody cooperated. Some just dumped stuff in the nearest bin and took off, but it saved us time sorting through. There were a few amazing finds—a broadsheet published on the death of Queen Anne in 1714, for example. That’s on display in our history section. We also found an early edition of Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary of the English Language and a third edition of Horace Walpole’s Castle of Otranto. Beyond that, it was all local family history. Like this.” She lifted out a red scrapbook and laid it on the table. “If you find anything you think may be of value, just leave it on the table. I’ll take a look. If you have questions, give me a shout. I’ll be in the children’s section, just past the help desk.”
I thanked her and got to work. I’d done this, or something similar, hundreds of times in my career, sorting through mountains of junk in the hopes of finding a single treasure. I started with the scrapbook, which was charming—filled, as I thought it would be, with Christmas cards and Valentines, calling cards, awards of merit from a child’s teacher, poems, and Bible verses. On a good day, the scrapbook might fetch a hundred pounds at auction, but I saw nothing relating to the Squires family—or the Merivales.
After an hour or so, I’d found no treasures, but there were a few items I thought Maggie might like to check out. One was an inventory of Dartmoor ponies owned by one of the landowners. Obviously an animal lover, he’d given each pony a name and carefully documented their physical condition and any medical treatment they’d received. There was also a ledger for a ladies’ haberdashery in the village of Buckfastleigh from the 1880s and a huge leather Bible with a family tree listing seven generations of a family named Chulmleigh. If there were any Chulmleighs still living, they might want their Bible back.
Near the bottom of the box I found a thick bundle of newsprint, rolled up and tied with twine. The bundle turned out to be several dozen editions of a newspaper called The Village Tatler, published in Widdecombe Throop between 1884 and 1886. Now this really was a treasure—at least to me. I was holding a contemporary account of a lost village.
Before diving in, I needed basic information.
I found Maggie in the children’s reading room, sitting at a child-sized table with her legs stretched out in front of her. She was cutting out red paper hearts. “We’re expecting a group of toddlers this afternoon. They’re going to make valentines for their parents. How’s it going? Can I help?”
“I found something you might want to see. Local newspapers from Widdecombe Throop, the submerged village. Do you know anything about The Village Tatler?”
“A newspaper? Really?” She put down the scissors and the heart she’d been working on. “I didn’t know there was a newspaper in Widdecombe Throop. Well done, Kate. Let’s have a look.”
“Why would someone start up a newspaper in such a small village?” I asked on the way back to the conference room. “They couldn’t have had a large circulation.”
“Small local papers never expected a large circulation. All news was local news then. People didn’t travel far from home, so events in other counties were of little consequence. They were interested in what was happening in their own particular area because that news impacted their lives.”
I’d spread the papers on the table. Each consisted of two pages printed on both sides with seven columns of tightly packed text plus adverts.
Maggie thumbed gingerly through the sheets, touching only the edges. “My goodness. These should have been treated with more care. Looks to me like they were published weekly, but quite a few are missing. Probably used as kindling. What a shame.”
I pulled a pair of white cotton gloves from my handbag. “Is it all right if I examine them?”
“Of course. Newspapers are a vital source of information.” She straightened her back. “There’s so much we’ll never know about the past because the documentation wasn’t preserved. History isn’t just major events like wars and shocking crimes and changes in government. And it isn’t driven only by wealthy, powerful, and famous people. History is the sum total of individual lives, the lives of ordinary people who lived in remote villages like Widdecombe Throop—what they believed, how they interpreted their lives, what actions they took to meet the challenges they faced, and how they changed their world, one day at a time. That’s why historic newspapers are so incredibly valuable. They provide a snapshot of the lives of real people in a particular place on a particular day or week.” Her cheeks were flushed. She laughed. “I’m sorry. I’m on my soapbox now. I guess you can tell where my interests lie.”
“Mine too,” I said. “That’s the way I feel about antiques and antiquities. Not all of them are valuable in themselves, but they all have stories to tell.”
“If only they could speak to us,” Maggie said.
I thought about the dress and the Gypsy-set ring. They’d spoken to me, all right. The problem was interpreting the cryptic messages they’d conveyed.
Maggie touched my arm. “I should get back. Hearts don’t wait forever.” She laughed. “Let me know if you find something of interest.”
Maggie left, and I began with the issue of the Tatler published on the twelfth of September 1885—five days after the incident involving Nancy Thorne. Page one was given to advertisements—for shoes and boots, fine leather gloves, wines and spirits, Yorkshire coal, and the services of Blake & Sons—coffins, undertaking, and general funeral requisites. I turned the page, and there it was on page two, the article about Nancy Thorne, in black and white—word for word. So the account had been published first in the local newspaper. Three weeks later the story was picked up by the South Devon Post. Finally in 1942, the same account appeared in the script of the radio documentary Hawksworthy had provided to Nash & Holmes.
I wondered how Nancy Thorne had felt about that first newspaper article and the suspicions that would cling to her for the rest of her short life. Why hadn’t she ever revealed what happened that night? I could think of two possibilities: Either she really was guilty of murder and determined not to incriminate herself, or she truly didn’t know what happened that night.
No, I thought with sudden clarity; there was a third possibility. She could have been protecting someone.
If only there was more to go on with. Letters, for example. Or a diary to give us insight into her character.
Someone, somewhere, knew what had transpired on the seventh of September 1885. The fact that I might never learn the truth was frustrating. My interest in the blood-soaked dress had expanded from a simple case of tracing provenance to a fascination with Nancy herself. I wanted to know what happened.
Returning to the Tatler, I scanned the subsequent issues—September nineteenth, September twenty-sixth, October third, October tenth. Fascinating as this snapshot of nineteenth-century village life was, I found nothing more about Nancy Thorne. Whatever the local gossip might have been, it hadn’t made it into the newspapers.
I sat for a moment, wondering whether I should put the Tatler aside and finish off the box. A thought occurred to me: what about Queenie’s funeral and the incident reported by Dr. Nutcombe? The funeral had been held on the twenty-eighth of August. Unfortunately, the issue of the Tatler published on the following day, the twenty-ninth, was missing. I moved to the next issue, published on September fifth.
And sure enough—there was a small article on the second page with a headline reading “Violence on the Gypsy Camp Raises Alarm.” This had to be the incident Dr. Nutcombe mentioned in his daybook. I struggled to read the fine print:
A serious incident took place last Friday week following the funeral of Mrs. Queenie Squires, a Gypsy, a colorful character well known in this part of Devon. According to eyewitnesses, a dispute arose between Tawno Squires, 43, and Luke Heron, 31, both grandsons of the deceased. Gunfire was reported, although no one was injured. Sir Henry Merivale, fearing the altercation on his land might escalate, sent for the local police, but Constable Percy Chapel found no one willing to speak about the incident. Leverin Squires, son of the deceased woman and father of one of the young men, refused to give police any information but assured Constable Chapel that the matter had been settled and the family would be moving on in a matter of weeks.
It wasn’t much, but as this had happened so close to the incident of the bloodstained dress, I couldn’t help wondering again if they were connected. Almost a month later, on October eighth, Dr. Nutcombe had written in his daybook that several of the men in the Squires family had left to pursue work elsewhere. Were they the men mentioned in the article—Tawno Squires and Luke Heron? What had they argued about? Had the family expelled them? Possibly, although I had no idea how the Romanichals handled disputes. It did strike me that family ties wouldn’t have been easily or thoughtlessly broken. If these young men had struck off on their own, something very serious must have occurred.
I found Maggie again. “Were Romani families counted in the census records in, say, 1891?”
“Yes, of course. The census records are a major source of information for Romani genealogists, as are parish records of baptisms, marriages, and funerals—even before 1841, when the information recorded was pretty basic. Why do you ask?”
I told her about the article I’d found concerning the incident following Queenie’s funeral. “Remember the photograph you showed me, the one of Queenie Squires and her family? I’d like to search for Tawno Squires and Luke Heron in the 1891 and 1901 census records.” I remembered Dr. Bob Smith saying there had been no Luke Heron in the 1891 census, and I believed him, but it wouldn’t hurt to recheck. Besides, I knew from experience that census takers in the past sometimes got names wrong—or their handwriting was later misread and therefore misrecorded.
“I’ll do that.” She made a note. “Thanks for giving me an interesting task. Cutting out paper hearts isn’t my favorite job at the library.” Her eyes sparkled. “Give you a call if I find something?”
“Please. You might not find them in Dartmoor, or even Devon.”
“No problem. With their names, ages, and the names of their parents, I can search for them in the every-name index. If they’re there, I’ll find them.”
“Maggie, that’s terrific. Would it be possible to get a copy of the photograph—the one taken in front of Queenie’s vardo?”
“Of course. It’s in my office. Follow me.”
The photo was on her desk. Printed in white ink along the bottom was the date—August 1884. She laid the photo facedown on her printer. Turning it over, she printed the back side as well, so I would also have the names written there.
In minutes, I held the image in my hand and had located the faces of the two grandsons mentioned in the Tatler article.
Tawno Squires, strong, confident, proud of his young family.
Luke Heron, the beautiful young man with the mesmerizing eyes.
There was Queenie. I looked more closely. “Wait a minute.” I fumbled in my handbag for my lighted magnifier. Holding it up to the photo, I focused on the old woman in all her finery, sitting in the midst of her family.
Suddenly I knew what my brain had been trying to tell me for days.
In the photograph, Queenie Squires wore an intricately woven jet-bead necklace, identical to the broken necklace at the museum, the one Gideon Littlejohn had said he’d found with the dress—and the jet beads I’d found in the compartmented drawer inside the trunk.
How had a necklace belonging to a Romani matriarch come into the possession of Gideon Littlejohn?
After an early lunch at the Crown, I drove to the Museum of Devon Life. I had the trunk with me, and I wanted Julia Kelly to examine it, especially the yellow print lining. I was confident that the workmanship would match that of the bloodstained dress and the red silk ball gown, but she was the expert.
Tom had texted to say Beryl Grey had been released from custody, at least for the time being. They were keeping Alan Grey, awaiting the arrival of a fraud investigation officer from His Majesty’s Revenue and Customs. Alan was in trouble. They both were. But not as much trouble as they would be if the police thought they were responsible for Gideon Littlejohn’s death.
I met Dr. Hawksworthy on the way in. “Let me take that,” he said gallantly, lifting the trunk out of my arms. “So this is it, eh? The trunk where Gideon Littlejohn found the dress and the other items.”
“That’s what he told me. I’ve asked Julia to examine the interior.”
“Will the museum get the trunk after all, do you think? It would certainly enhance the exhibit.”
“It belongs to Gideon’s sister now. She might sell it to you.” I doubted anything but cold, hard cash would persuade Donna Nixon.
When we reached Julia Kelly’s workroom, I held the door open for Hugo.
“Set it on the work top.” Julia clasped her hands. “Oh, this will be fun.”
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Hugo headed for the door.
“Will you be in your office later?” I asked. “I’d like to stop by before I leave.”
“Of course. Anytime.”
Julia had already opened the trunk and was examining the padded lining. “The workmanship is exquisite.” She straightened her back and gave an appreciative sigh. “Everything this woman did was performed with great skill and care.”
“You believe the lining of the trunk was installed by Sally Thorne, then?”
“I’m sure of it. Look at the way she’s handled the self-cording. Invisible stitches. And look at the seams, where the fabric meets the inside of the dome.” She ran her finger along the padded edge of the fabric. “You can feel the wooden slats inside, but you’d never know they’re there, even after all these years. The tiny stitches are absolute perfection. All you see is a bead of silk thread every half inch or so. Everything is precise and decorative.”
“What about the fabric?”
“Well, that’s amazing too, isn’t it? Exceptionally fine cotton, tightly woven, probably French. The floral patterns are precise. See?” She pointed at one of the flower motifs. “The design was created with three colors, each rolled separately but with great care to match up exactly. This fabric would have been quite expensive. I imagine it was purchased for a client’s commission, and Sally used what was left over to line the trunk.”
“Is there anything else we can learn?”
“The lining has been repaired. See there?” She showed me a slight irregularity along the self-cording on the right-hand side of the domed lid.
“I see what you mean.” Still, if Julia hadn’t pointed it out, I might not have noticed.
“I’d like to keep the trunk for a few days,” she said. “And with your permission, I’ll release one of the panels—probably at the point of repair—in order to examine the construction beneath. I want to know what she used for padding—probably several layers. And how she managed to keep the fabric so uniformly stretched over the slats. I’ll sew everything back with a slightly different thread. For historical purposes, we always show the work we’ve done as conservators.”
“Yes, of course. I can stop back whenever you like.”
“Thank you for the opportunity.” She offered me her hand. “I can’t wait to get stuck in.”