Wednesday, January 15
Tom left for the police enquiry office immediately after breakfast. I sat, drinking the inn’s excellent coffee and checking my emails. I smiled, reading my mother’s encouraging report about her new husband, James Lund, who’d injured his leg so badly he hadn’t been able to attend our wedding. He was recuperating faster than expected.
James has started talking about a trip to England. Perhaps this spring, if that would suit you and Tom. I can’t wait to see your house. Do enjoy your time together, my darling girl. An update on the mysterious dress would be welcome. We both send our love.
I emailed back, telling her what we’d learned so far. It all comes down to the tea, I said. Who got tea? Sounds like something from the Father Brown mysteries. I pictured her face when she read that. If I knew my mother, she’d be mentally working on the puzzle for days.
In another series of emails, Debs, Ginny, and Lisa, my friends from Ohio who’d flown over for our wedding, had sent several dozen photographs from the minibus tour of England they’d taken after the festivities. I smiled, seeing the iconic tourist shots—Ginny on Westminster Bridge, pretending to touch the pinnacle of Big Ben in the distance; the whole group, standing arm in arm, in the garden outside Anne Hathaway’s cottage; Lisa and Debs pretending they were being chased by a peacock at Warwick Castle. They’d had an amazing trip.
The last email was from my best friend and matron of honor, Charlotte. She’d sent a short video of the four of them at Stansted Airport, waiting for their flight home. “We love you, Kate!” they said, waving and blowing kisses. I felt a lump in my throat. I’d told Tom I wouldn’t miss my three-story Victorian house in Jackson Falls. That had been the truth, but I was going to miss the people I loved—my mother, my children, and my friends who’d supported me in the horrific, grief-filled months after my first husband’s death. They’d promised to visit me in England every year, but I knew that wouldn’t happen. They had families of their own. Charlotte’s twin sons, much to the surprise of their nonathletic parents, had been recruited by an elite middle-grade football league. Lisa’s father had been struggling with dementia, and her mother needed help. Ginny’s son had gotten married the previous summer. A baby was on the way. I had a new husband, a new job with Ivor, and a new house.
We’d taken different paths in life. When I’d chosen to live in Britain, I’d had to let go of my life in Jackson Falls. I was happy with my new life, happy with Tom. I wouldn’t change a thing, but that didn’t mean the choice had been without cost.
The thought came out of nowhere—had Nancy Thorne faced a life-altering choice? What price had she paid?
Yvie Innes appeared. “More coffee?”
“I think I’ve had enough, thanks. By the way, I’m off to interview the young woman you told me about, Mercy Abbott.”
“Say hello from me.”
I left the Crown at ten, giving myself plenty of time to navigate the narrow Dartmoor roads. After more than a year, driving on the left side of the road had become almost second nature. I was even becoming adept at navigating England’s often-complex roundabouts. But I wasn’t brave enough to hurtle along one-track roads or take blind summits with abandon like the locals.
Crossing the River Dart at Hexworthy, I took the B3212 north to Chagford, a market town near the River Teign. Signs for Beechlands Country House Hotel led me along the banks of the river, a lovely, wild place. I felt a sense of anticipation. Mercy Abbott was the last lead we had in our investigation into the origins of the bloodstained dress—apart from the mysterious Daniel somebody. Mercy might know how to contact him. And she’d known Gideon Littlejohn since before his divorce.
The sprawling Tudor-style country house was set on acres of woodland skirting the bubbling upper reaches of the river. While drinking my coffee that morning, I’d done a little online research. Beechlands had been built in the mid-seventeenth century by London entrepreneur Ephraim Beech as a summer retreat for his family. After the Second World War, the estate had been sold and converted into a luxury hotel. In the 1990s, it was sold again to an international company, who closed it for two years to effect a complete restoration.
I entered the oak-paneled reception area to find a woman waiting for me.
“Kate?” With her smooth, unlined skin, Mercy Abbott could have been anywhere from twenty-five to forty. She was Asian, probably Chinese, as Yvie Innes had suggested, with a pretty, heart-shaped face and glossy dark hair pulled into a ponytail. She wore slim jeans and a quilted vest over a white turtleneck sweater.
“Mercy, thank you for inviting me to lunch.” We shook hands. “What a gorgeous hotel.”
“Isn’t it just,” she agreed. “I came from an excellent hotel in Torquay, four stars, but Beechlands is in another category entirely. I’m the catering manager—weddings, private parties, business meetings. I live in a small cottage on the grounds.”
“Lucky you.”
“The only downside is being a bit farther from my family.”
“You’re a Devon girl, then?”
“All my life—well, all of it I can remember, anyway. I was adopted when I was two. My parents lived in Hong Kong then, but we moved back to England soon afterwards, to Brixham on the coast.” When she smiled, a dimple appeared in one cheek. “This is our down time at the hotel. We reopen in March, so we’re having our lunch in front of the fire in the library. Do you mind?”
“It sounds lovely.”
“We don’t have an actual menu. Just a daily lunch and dinner for staff. This is when the chefs try out new recipes.” She offered an apologetic tilt of the head. “Today it’s fairly plain—fillet of sole. Comes with a green salad.”
“Sounds perfect.” I followed her down a carpeted hallway to another oak-paneled room. A massive Portland stone hearth was flanked by twin sofas covered in coral-red and cream fabric. Shelved books, most bound in leather, lined two walls.
Mercy and I sat across from each other on the sofas. “Did you live in Coombe Mallet for a time?” I began. “I know you were part of Gideon Littlejohn’s club—the Society of Victorians. By the way, Yvie Innes from the Crown says hello.”
“Oh, Yvie.” Mercy smiled. “I always liked her. Very down-to-earth. But, no, I never lived in Coombe Mallet. I drove in for the meetings and stayed the night.”
“You said you’d known Gideon for quite a while. How did you meet?”
“In London, at a symposium put on by the Victorian Society. That was in 2012 or 2013, I think.”
“Did you know him well?”
“Not then, not until after his divorce.” Mercy blushed slightly. “We were very close for a time.”
“Close?” I gave her an encouraging smile.
“Close romantically. He asked me to marry him.”
“You said no.”
“I’m interested in the Victorian era. Gideon was obsessed.” She smiled wistfully. “Did you ever see those historical re-creations on the BBC? There were four or five series, but the one I remember best was called The 1900 House. A modern family—husband, wife, two kids—agreed to spend three months living in a restored Victorian townhouse. They wore period clothing and weren’t allowed anything that wouldn’t have been available to them in 1900. It was a fascinating experiment, and I think it inspired Gideon to restore an old house and live in it like a Victorian gentleman. I probably would have agreed to a three-month experiment, but Gideon wanted it to be a permanent thing. He was so taken with the idea. As much as I cared for him, I couldn’t do it.” She looked at me curiously. “You’re thinking about his wife, Freya, aren’t you?”
I nodded. ”I just heard about her death.”
“I worked with Freya for a time on the Agatha Christie festival. The road accident was a real tragedy.”
“Was there any suggestion of foul play?” Max Newlin hadn’t said so, but I wanted to explore every possibility.
“None at all.” Mercy’s eyes flicked away, and I got the impression there was something she was reluctant to tell me.
“A single-car crash, I understand.” I waited.
“Drink driving.” She looked up. “I don’t think Freya’d ever really gotten over the divorce—even though it had been her idea. That’s why I mentioned her. It was Gideon’s obsession with the past that caused the breakup. He wanted to buy a house and dive into the lifestyle. She couldn’t do it. Neither could I.”
I nodded. “We saw his house in Coombe Mallet.”
“Then you’ll know what I mean. He admitted he couldn’t do it all at once, but that was his goal—to live the life of a Victorian gentleman as authentically as possible. He said once he’d been born in the wrong century.” She laughed. “I think he probably was. The problem was finding a wife who’d go along with the idea. I thought for a time he was in love with me, but I finally realized he was in love with the idea of a Victorian wife and everything that went along with it. You know—the house as a sanctuary of order and contentment. Wife at home, making sure everything was perfect. The Victorians were big on that—separating one’s work life from family life.”
“But Gideon worked from home. He had a very sophisticated computer room.” I deleted the part about finding his body there.
“He worked for himself, so he didn’t have an office to go to. He had to have an income. Re-creating history is expensive.”
“Did he see the irony in that?”
“I don’t think he did. He was good at compartmentalizing. His computer lab was completely separate in his mind.” She leaned forward, her face earnest. “Did you ever watch Star Trek, the one with Jean-Luc Picard? They had this holodeck thing on board the starship, a separate space. Inside that space, it could be any time or place at all. I always thought of Gideon’s computer lab like that—a slip in time.”
“Do you remember someone named Daniel—another member of the society?”
“Of course. Daniel Woodhouse. He used to do some filming for Gideon’s videos.”
“Do you know where Daniel is now?”
“Not exactly. He moved to Shetland in … well, I think it must have been 2019. He was offered a job at the hospital in Lerwick. Daniel is a surgical nurse and a hiker, so it was a good fit. And the pay was well more than he was earning here. We haven’t kept in touch.”
“Do you know about a Victorian dress Gideon donated to the local history museum in Coombe Mallet?”
“Of course. I read about it in the newspaper. Gideon’s name was never mentioned, but I knew who the donor was because I’d seen the dress.”
“You’d seen the dress?”
“Gideon showed it to me one evening. It was in an old trunk, folded up and wrapped in tissue. He actually wanted me to try it on.”
“Did you?”
She shook her head. “All that blood? I thought it was disgusting, but Gideon was fascinated.”
“Why was that, do you think?”
“Because of Billy Cole—an old man who’d befriended Gideon when he was a boy.”
My pulse kicked up a notch. “Gideon told us about the old man. His sister, Donna, said he died in a fire. What did Billy Cole have to do with the dress?”
An arm appeared at my shoulder, making me jump.
“Sorry, madam.” A man in a crisp white chef’s tunic slid two plates onto the low table between the sofas and handed each of us silverware wrapped in white napkins. “Fillet of sole, lightly grilled, pureed squash with pumpkin seeds, and a rocket salad with Parmesan.”
“It looks amazing,” I said, feeling a little foolish. I’d been so immersed in Mercy’s story I could have been in a time slip myself.
“This is our sous chef, Alex,” Mercy said. “Alex, this is Kate Hamilton. She’s a private investigator.”
“Charmed.” Alex gave a little bow. “I’ll leave you to it.” He headed for the door.
“You were telling me about Billy Cole,” I said, moving the conversation back on target. “And the bloodstained dress.”
Mercy took a bite of her sole and put down her fork. “That was the thing, wasn’t it? The dress. And Gideon’s fascination with it. He’d had a lot to drink the night he asked me to try the dress on. Which was unusual for him.” She chewed thoughtfully.
“But that night was different?” I took a bite of the flaky white fish, hardly tasting it as I focused on her story.
“It was different. I think showing me the dress was a huge step for him. It meant a lot to him—because of Billy Cole. Gideon was a very private person. Hard to get to know. Secretive.”
Just about everyone who’d known Littlejohn had said something similar. “What do you mean by secretive?”
“Well—that computer lab of his, for one thing. In all the time we were together, I was never allowed inside that room. I saw it once from the hallway. That was it. His specialty was preventing hackers from getting into his clients’ software. I think he was almost paranoid about hackers getting into his system.”
I could believe that. The break-in three months before his death must have rattled him—so much so that he’d installed a security system. “Tell me about that night. The dress.”
“The trunk was Billy’s. Gideon said it had belonged to Billy’s grandfather. Billy had been named after him—William.”
“You mean the dress belonged to Billy’s grandmother? Do you know the surname?”
“I don’t. Gideon mentioned a name, though—Nancy Thorne.”
Nancy Thorne. I was almost hyperventilating. This was the first direct link we’d found between the dress and Nancy Thorne. And if this William was William Tucker, Sally’s son, he would have been Nancy’s nephew. “I know there was a fire. Why didn’t the trunk get burned up?”
“Because by that time, Gideon had the trunk. Billy had given him lots of things. He was old and in pain. He’d been living alone for years. His greatest fear, Gideon told me, was being forced into a care home. Having all his possessions tossed out as rubbish. I think he saw Gideon as a sort of grandson. Someone who would treasure his memories. And Gideon did treasure them.”
“Where did the blood come from?” I forced myself to breath slowly. “Did Billy tell Gideon where the blood came from?”
“That’s the funny thing, Kate. I asked him about it, but he changed the subject and somehow it never came up again. Maybe because that night Gideon was focused on Billy Cole’s death.” She hesitated. “And his part in it.”
“His part in it?” I felt like someone had poured cold water down my back. “Are you saying Gideon Littlejohn was involved in Billy Cole’s death?”
“Not exactly, no. You have to understand. Gideon had a rough childhood. He grew up on a council estate with people who didn’t think much of intelligent boys who liked books.”
“He was bullied?”
“Of course. And he had no support. His parents split up when he was six. His sister was much older. She left home when Gideon was ten. Billy’s house was a sort of sanctuary for him, an escape from the difficult realities of life.”
“Gideon told us they met in the park. The old man was feeding the ducks.”
“They became friends. Billy had been born with a twisted spine. The kids on the estate called him a freak, a troll, a monster.”
“What happened the night Billy Cole died?”
“You mean the night Billy Cole was murdered. Gideon had been to see him. It was dark and he was on his way home when he saw this gang of boys, some on foot, others on bikes. Gideon knew them. Everyone on the estate did. They were troublemakers—terrorized the residents, vandalized houses, set fire to rubbish bins, stole from local businesses. Billy Cole was their favorite target. They would shove dog-mess through his letter box, Kate. They called him names, painted obscene messages on his front windows, tipped over his rubbish bin. Once they cornered Gideon, threatened to teach him a lesson—whatever that was supposed to mean. He avoided them if he could, so when he saw them that night, he hid. And he watched as they descended on Billy Cole’s house. Some were chanting slurs, calling the old man a perv, a monster. But then they started a fire in Billy’s rubbish bin. One of them grabbed a newspaper, lit it, and shoved it through the letter box. Gideon was nearly paralyzed with fear. If the gang knew he was there, they’d have beaten him up—no question. He ran home. Shortly after that, a neighbor saw smoke coming from Billy Cole’s house. The neighbor called the fire service. They were there in minutes, but it was too late. Billy Cole was dead. And Gideon never told anyone. He was afraid of the gang. The problem was he felt guilty about not saving Billy, but what could he do, Kate? He was thirteen, I think, and small for his age. Just him against all those older boys. Even so, Gideon blamed himself.”
“For what?” I asked.
“For not stopping them, I suppose. For running away. Maybe for not telling the police. He didn’t like to talk about it. The fact that he told me anything at all was a miracle.”
“Did he know who shoved the burning newspaper through the letter box?”
“He said he did.”
I let out the breath I didn’t know I’d been holding. “What was the boy’s name?”
“He wouldn’t tell me. Just that he’d made a vow that one day this boy—well, this man, now—would pay for what he’d done. He’d come up in the world, Gideon said. Made something of himself. No one knew that he’d killed a helpless old man. But one day Gideon would tell the world what this man had done, and the truth would ruin him.”
This will ruin me. The words Beryl Grey heard Hugo Hawksworthy say the morning of Gideon’s death. “Why hadn’t Gideon already exposed the man?” I asked Mercy. “What was he waiting for?”
“I don’t know. Actually, we were both pretty pissed that night. Honestly, I think Gideon had almost forgotten I was there. He was spilling out his story, almost to himself.” She stopped. “Actually, I do remember him saying, ‘There’s something I have to do first. Promised Billy, didn’t I?’”
“What had he promised Billy?”
“I wish I knew, Kate. As I said, we were both pretty pissed.”
Possibilities swirled in my brain. Was there something Gideon Littlejohn had known about Hugo Hawksworthy that would ruin him if it became public? Was it the fire? Maybe, but then I remembered Teddy Pearce with his self-admitted record of youthful crimes. He’d actually lived on the Burnthouse Lane estate around that time. “Mercy, this is important. Did Gideon ever mention the names Hugo Hawksworthy or Teddy Pearce?”
“I don’t remember hearing him mention either name. Actually, I don’t know anyone named Hawksworthy. I do know who Pearce is, of course. If Gideon had known him, I think he might have said.”
“And you never asked him about the man—well, the boy—who’d caused Billy’s death? It’s not a criticism, Mercy. I’m curious.”
“I should have asked, but the next day Gideon was acting really strange, distant. Like he regretted telling me all that. I’m sure he did regret it. So I dropped it. We never spoke about it again.”
“Gideon’s housekeeper told us he had a visitor sometime in the week before he died—a woman, someone she thought he knew well. Was it you?”
“Me? No.” She looked shocked. “Why would I want to see Gideon after all these years? My relationship with him is in the past—well, that’s ironic, isn’t it?”
“Mercy, is there anything else you can tell me? Anything at all? It could be important.”
She thought for a moment before answering. Then she said, “There is one thing. I can’t explain it, but I got the strongest feeling that the promise he’d made Billy had something to do with the dress.”