Back on the ground floor, I saw Isla Ferris behind the ticket counter, arranging piles of museum brochures and maps.
“I’d like to see Dr. Hawksworthy,” I said. “Is he free?”
“I’ll just ask, shall I?” I got the message: I’m the gatekeeper. She disappeared into his office, returning moments later. “He’ll see you. Don’t stay long, mind you. He has a meeting with a donor in less than an hour.” She eyed my jacket. “Let me take that. I’ll hang it in the cloakroom.”
Hawksworthy was at his computer. He looked up. “Come in. Have a seat. Coffee? Tea?”
I declined his offer, and we moved to the white leather chairs.
“You have questions?” he said, his face open and pleasant.
“Yes, but I have something to tell you first—about that note accusing Nancy Thorne of murder. You said it was a fake. You were right. Gideon Littlejohn wrote it himself.”
“My goodness.” He leaned forward. “How did you find that out?”
“He’d been practicing his copperplate—and the text of the note.”
“I see.” He ran his hand over his smooth jawline. “Extraordinary.”
“My question is why? Why would he do it? Was he trying to entice you into accepting the dress for the local crimes exhibit?”
“Entice me?” Hawksworthy barked a laugh. “I was over the moon. We’d just announced the construction of the new wing and the local-crimes exhibit. I needed a centerpiece—something that would capture people’s imagination. A bloodstained dress was just the ticket.”
“But without the note, how would you have connected the dress with a crime?”
Hawksworthy frowned. “I suppose I wouldn’t have.”
“Did Littlejohn tell you where he found the dress?”
“You know that already. In the trunk he bought at auction.”
“He didn’t buy it at auction. The trunk wasn’t part of the lot he purchased.”
Hawksworthy’s eyebrows shot up. “So where did he get it?”
“That’s what we’re trying to find out.” I watched his face, seeing confusion. “Back to the note. What exactly did Littlejohn tell you about it?”
“Just that he’d found it pinned to the dress. He said he’d heard about our new exhibit and thought we might be interested in owning the dress. He had no use for it. Of course, we were delighted. When I asked if he would donate the trunk as well, he said that wasn’t possible.”
“Did he say why not?”
“No.”
“Didn’t that raise red flags?”
“Why should it? It was certainly his right. But I did hope he might change his mind.”
“Why did you contact Nash & Holmes? Were you suspicious of the dress?”
“No, I wasn’t. We’d found the radio documentary, the one I provided to Nash & Holmes. Everything seemed straightforward.” He rubbed his ear. “Well, except for the obvious question: why would such a dress have been preserved—and by whom? But truthfully, we engaged private investigators—you and your husband, as it turned out—because Littlejohn insisted. He told me he had one requirement. He wanted to be sure the dress really had belonged to Nancy Thorne, and he wanted us to learn all we could about the circumstances surrounding the incident in September of 1885. Was Nancy Thorne a murderess as the note claimed? If so, whom did she murder and why? Of course I was happy to oblige. If the dress was going to be the centerpiece of our new exhibit, we wanted to know as much about it as possible anyway. From the museum’s perspective, all we really needed to do was trace the ownership of the dress to Nancy Thorne. Littlejohn wanted more, and I thought, fine. If we can solve an old mystery, so much the better. I warned him we might not be able to answer his questions. He agreed as long as we did our due diligence.”
“Why Nash & Holmes? Was it because of my husband’s uncle?”
“Ah, yes—Nigel Hartley. He’s one of our most generous supporters. His donation early on allowed us to begin construction on the new wing. But no—I didn’t know Nigel had a nephew until recently. The truth is, Nash & Holmes has a reputation, Ms. Hamilton. They’ve done work in the past for other museums. You must know that.”
I didn’t, but I wasn’t going to tell him. “So Gideon Littlejohn’s goal was to find out if the dress really had belonged to Nancy Thorne and then if she had indeed committed murder.”
“Exactly. He really wanted to solve the mystery. I did too, but he was insistent. He wanted the dress to be seen by the public, and he wanted the public to know exactly what Nancy had done. Almost as if he wanted justice to prevail after nearly a hundred and forty years.”
Justice for whom? “What made him think we could find out what the police in 1885 never did?”
“I can’t imagine, but if we wanted the dress, we had to comply. That’s why we hired Nash & Holmes. No one here has the time to do that kind of research.”
“What did you think when Gideon Littlejohn was murdered?”
“What did I think?” Hawksworthy glared at me as if I’d suggested he might enjoy a afternoon’s excursion to an abattoir. “I thought it was appalling. Shocking. Disgusting.”
“What I meant was, is it possible Littlejohn’s murder had something to do with the investigation into the origins of the dress?”
“Absolutely not. What an idea. Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have an important phone call.” He strode to his office door and held it open. “I hope I’ve answered your questions, Ms. Hamilton. I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can tell you.”
Time to make an exit.
I didn’t get far. Beryl Grey stood near the ticket counter, looking uncertain. She was dressed in conservative beige slacks and a thick navy coat. I was still having a hard time moving her mentally out of the nineteenth century. When she saw me, she rushed forward. “I saw your car outside. You have to help me.” She grabbed my sleeve. “They’re going to charge us with murder, and we didn’t do it.”
Two older couples who’d been examining the museum map looked up in surprise.
Isla Ferris fluttered her hand. “Shhh. Keep your voices down, please.”
“The police kept Alan in custody,” Beryl said, ignoring Isla. “They’re still questioning him about the fraud.”
“But they released you. As far as I know, they haven’t charged either of you with murder.”
“They’re going to. I know they are.”
“You don’t know that. Besides, what can Tom and I do? We have to tell the truth.”
“But that’s what we’re doing.” Her voice was almost a screech. “They don’t believe us. You’ve got to help.”
Isla came around the counter. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to leave.”
“Why tell me?” I asked Beryl. “I’m not the police.”
“No, but your husband is. They’ll listen to him.”
“We’ve told the police everything we know.”
“That’s quite enough.” Isla began steering Beryl toward the exit.
I followed.
“They appointed a solicitor for us. She’s young, but she seems competent.” Beryl shook off Isla’s hand angrily. “I’m going. No need to get huffy.”
Isla handed me my jacket. “Leave now, please.”
“Well, then, take your solicitor’s advice,” I told Beryl. “Tell her everything—don’t hold back. If you aren’t guilty—of murder, I mean—she’ll be able to help.” I slipped on my jacket as we moved toward the exit.
“Go, go.” Isla shooed us.
“Do you really think so?” Beryl looked like a lost child.
“Look—Beryl.” I stopped at the door to zip up my jacket. “I shouldn’t get involved, but they’ve released you for now. That means they don’t have evidence you shot Mr. Littlejohn. And you just told me they’re questioning your husband about the benefits fraud. They do have evidence against him on that count.”
“I know.” She shook her head. “Stupid to think we could pull it off.”
“They may question you again about the murder. When they do, stick to the truth. They’ll try to rattle you, see if your testimony changes. Just answer honestly and fully.”
Beryl wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Thank you. I—”
My hand was on the glass exit door when Dr. Hawksworthy came striding out of his office. “Isla, where’s that folder I asked for? I need to review it before my meeting.”
“It’s right here.”
I felt Beryl’s fingers clutch my arm.
Outside, the first drops of rain speckled the concrete. “What’s wrong?”
“Who is that man?” she hissed, glancing over her shoulder as if someone might have followed us out.
“Hugo Hawksworthy, the museum director. Why?”
“He’s the person I heard that morning. With Mr. Littlejohn. They were together in the study when I arrived at nine o’clock.”
“Are you sure?”
“I told you—I never forget a voice.”
“Come with me.” I pulled out my cell phone.