It was a quarter to nine when Dr. Hawksworthy stepped onto the stage and tapped the microphone. “Welcome, everyone. What an amazing night. I trust you’ve all received the packet of information about our plans for the museum—and, of course, the all-important donation envelopes.” He held one up, his eyes twinkling. “Which you may drop in the box as you leave or mail in at your convenience. Right now, it is my distinct pleasure to introduce one of our most enthusiastic supporters. Everyone, please welcome our newly elected member of Parliament, Theodore Pearce.”
Applause was enthusiastic.
A well-muscled man of medium height, possibly in his late forties, leapt onto the stage. With his shaggy hair, flat lopsided nose, and distinct underbite, he had the look of an amiable bulldog. He clapped along with the audience. “Not bad for an ex-juvie, eh?” He pointed a thick forefinger at Hawksworthy. “And no Theodore, got it? It’s Teddy.”
Hawksworthy steepled his hands and bowed in mock apology.
“Nah, you’re all right, mate.” Pearce grinned. “I’m told we’re here tonight to cough up some serious cash, eh? And what better reason to do it than for the Museum of Devon Life. Our museum. Our way of life. And just to be clear, I will not be part of the famous criminal’s exhibit.”
Laughter.
Pearce’s expression became serious. “But I could have been. Some of you know my history. Grew up on the streets. No point lying. Dad was a worthless drunk. Mum scrubbed floors. By the age of nine, I was on me own. Never got an education.” He held up his hands. “My own fault. Thought I was the dog’s bollocks, I did. Headed for hard time until social services stepped in. Literally saved my life. That’s why I stood for Parliament. To change the lives of other kids—kids like me who didn’t have the best start in life. Make a difference, you know? But tonight we’re here to talk about the Museum of Devon Life. Our museum—yours and mine.”
I watched Pearce, fascinated, as he responded to the audience, inserting humor, adjusting his tone and body language until he had them in the palm of his hand. I couldn’t help liking him. Pearce might lack a formal education, but he had boatloads of charisma. And he knew how to give a speech.
Gideon Littlejohn stood beside me, his hand gripping the silver head of his cane.
Pearce adopted a confidential tone. “I don’t need to tell you lot—Devon has suffered a decline in our core industries. Fishing, mining, farming. You know what I mean—the rise in crime, the drugs epidemic, the loss of good jobs, especially for our young people. We rely on tourism, and this museum is slated to become a major attraction. If we want it to be. If we’re willing to back it up with cash. And that’s just the beginning. Hotels, restaurants, shops, service industries, all sorts, will grow up around the museum. Bringing prosperity. Bringing hope. And hope isn’t something we take for granted in this part of Devon.”
Applause. Murmurs of agreement.
“That’s why I stood for Parliament, folks. Didn’t do it for myself. I did it for you and you and you.” He pointed at several faces in the crowd. “Think about it. A lad from the streets in Parliament? My old mum would never have believed it. And job one is rooting out and putting an end to corruption. You know what I’m talking about—eighty percent increase in raw sewage dumps. Thousands of Council homes with expired electrical safety certificates. Long waiting lists for essential surgeries. The elderly and most vulnerable having to choose between the cost of care or remaining alone in their homes. How did it happen? Short story, ugly but true: Corruption. Local politicians, bureaucrats, even the police.”
“Mind what you say, lad,” came a voice from behind me.
I turned my head. The voice belonged to the tall, silver-haired man I’d seen speaking with Hawksworthy when we arrived. His wife was silver haired, too, and almost matched him in height.
“You know what they say.” Pearce flashed a smile. “If you don’t make someone mad, you’re not doing your job.” The audience laughed. He shrugged. “We’re talking real crime here, and trust me, folks, it takes one to know one. But I can’t fight decades of corruption alone.” He was serious now. “I think that’s why you elected me. You care about preserving our way of life. You want our young people to have the hope of a living wage, the chance to have a family, hold their heads up. And you know what we’re up against, don’t you? Powerful people. People with money and influence who are profiting from crime. They fly off to their holiday homes in Spain and turn a blind eye to the suffering of the little people. The ones with no power. They’re determined to stop me. I’m their worst nightmare.” He laughed. “Hell—I’ve been someone’s worst nightmare me whole life.” More laughter from the crowd. “But seriously, folks. I’ve been threatened. Phone calls in the middle of the night. My house vandalized. Rocks tossed through the windows.” He stopped and bowed his head. “They can’t intimidate me, because this is important. If we’re going to make a change, we have to stand together. That’s why we’re here tonight. To stand together. Together we can accomplish anything. End corruption. Fund this museum. Bring pride and prosperity back to our community. We’re here to celebrate our heritage, our history, our way of life. So get out those checkbooks, eh? Be generous, because we’re ordinary people who know what’s important in life. Some of us had to learn the hard way, but it’s going to take all of us working together to finish the new wing—to bring hope back to East Devon. And while you’re at it, I wouldn’t say no to a wee check for my campaign.” Pearce saluted the crowd. “That’s enough of me blathering on, eh? Enjoy the evening, folks.”
He jumped off the platform to thunderous applause. A woman joined him. His wife? She was younger than Pearce and slightly taller, platinum blond and incredibly beautiful yet almost too thin. She was dressed in a long Wedgwood-blue velvet gown that bared her pale, wand-like arms. A crystal-studded clutch in the form of a winking cat hung from a silver cross-body chain. Pearce put his arm around her, and they moved toward the bar, Pearce shaking hands all the way.
This man was extraordinarily gifted. I could see why he’d won in the general election—plain-spoken, humble, likable. “An ordinary bloke like us,” I heard someone say.
Hugo Hawksworthy was back at the podium. “If that doesn’t get your blood pumping, I don’t know what will. Thanks, Teddy. Folks, you can slip those checks in the envelopes provided. Mail them in, drop them off in person, send a herald on horseback. We’ll take them any way you like. But now, enjoy the food and the drinks. Take time to wander through the museum. We have guides stationed in every room to answer your questions. Unfortunately, the new wing isn’t ready for visitors, but you can have a look through the reveal on the top floor. I think you’ll be impressed. And for those interested in the mechanical clock, I’ll meet you at ten on the first floor for a demonstration.” He clapped at the crowd. “Thanks, folks, for coming out tonight. It means so much. And thank you in advance for your generous support.”
The hum of conversation rose as small clusters of guests moved off in all directions. I looked for Gideon Littlejohn but didn’t find him.
“Wonderful speech,” Isla Ferris said. I’d forgotten she was still with us. “Teddy’s support will make a big difference. Would you like to meet him?”
“Yes, of course,” Tom said. “Interesting fellow.”
Teddy Pearce stood near the bar, a drink in one hand and the other around the waist of the woman in blue.
“That’s Teddy’s wife—Quinn,” Isla said. “Her father’s one of the largest landowners on Dartmoor. Gorgeous, isn’t she? And fabulously wealthy. She was studying business at Exeter when she announced she was dropping out to marry Pearce. As you can imagine, Mum and Dad weren’t best pleased. They have twin daughters now.” She took Tom’s arm. “Come on. I’ll introduce you.”
In heels, Quinn Pearce was several inches taller than her husband, with porcelain skin and amethyst-blue eyes. Her white-blond hair was pulled into an intricate knot at her neck. A silver chain set with a curved bar of diamonds rested between her collarbones. She smiled as we approached, revealing perfect white teeth. She was older than I’d first thought—late thirties?
“Mr. and Mrs. Pearce—I’d like you to meet Detective Inspector Tom Mallory and his wife, Kate Hamilton. They’re from Suffolk, here to investigate the provenance of the Victorian dress.”
“Quinn and Teddy, please. Welcome to Devon.” Quinn’s handshake was stronger than I had expected. “Hugo told us you were coming.”
Teddy Pearce stuck out his hand to shake Tom’s. “We’ve got our fingers crossed about the dress.”
“You’ve seen it?” I asked.
“Of course. Hugo had us over when it first came in.”
“You know Gideon Littlejohn, then,” Tom said.
“Hard to miss, I’d say.” Pearce glanced at his wife. “I wouldn’t say we actually know each other.”
I noticed Dr. Hawksworthy signaling Isla from the other side of the room.
“Sorry—I’m needed.” She excused herself.
The tall silver-haired couple approached. Without acknowledging our presence, the man took Pearce’s arm. “A word, if you don’t mind.”
Pearce looked embarrassed. “Great to meet you, Tom and … Kate, is it? We should get together while you’re here. Share a meal. How about it, Quinn?”
“Yes, of course.” She turned away from the older woman. “We’ll have you over. Sometime next week?”
“That would be lovely,” I said.
Teddy and Quinn headed off with the older couple.
Tom was thumbing through the museum brochure. “The Rise of Transport exhibit on the ground floor has a 1962 Ford Anglia Deluxe. The Harry Potter car. Care to have a look?”
“Very tempting,” I said with a generous hint of sarcasm, “but I think I’d rather check out the lace exhibit.”
Isla appeared again. I was beginning to wonder if she’d been ordered to follow us. “You mentioned the lace exhibit. It’s one of my favorites. Why don’t I show you around?”
“You don’t mind, do you, Tom? We can meet up in forty minutes or so in the atrium.”
“I’ll be there.”
Isla and I made our way toward the staircase. A sign told us the first-floor exhibits included lacemaking in Devon, the West Country’s Romanies and Travellers, village schools, and the mechanical clock.
“The lacemaking exhibit is one of our first and best,” she said. “It’s really about people, you know, the way they lived their lives. Mostly women, of course, although there were men who made lace—ex-fishermen, mostly.”
The exhibit was fascinating. The term Honiton lace, I learned, was taken from the town of Honiton in East Devon—the center of Devon’s lacemaking industry from the end of the sixteenth century. Even then, the cost of handmade lace was affordable by only a few wealthy locals. Most of the lace was sent to London and the continent—which made me wonder again why that exquisite lace collar had been sewn onto a plain calico dress.
The display featured gorgeous examples of lace—collars and cuffs, edgings, flouncings, veils—but the heart of the exhibit was the stories of the lacemakers themselves, told in photographs and in their own words. I wandered through, reading the captions. Isla followed.
“Very young girls were sent to lace schools,” she said, “in existence in Devon until around 1870. They were taught songs, or ‘tells’—slow, chant-like rhythms to help them memorize the patterns and work more quickly. Many of the tells spoke of hardship and domestic violence by fathers or husbands.”
I thought about Nancy Thorne and the bloodstained dress. Had she been mistreated? I pictured that breathtaking lace collar. A reminder of the life she’d never have? A badge of courage? Or a symbol of something darker, like Hester Prynne’s embroidered A?
Isla looked at her watch. “I’m afraid I’ll have to cut things short. The mechanical clock demonstration in the atrium area begins in ten minutes. I’m expected to have everything ready when Hugo arrives. I hope you’ll stay to see it, Kate. It’s quite remarkable.”
“I’d love to see it. Tom won’t mind waiting.” As we moved toward the atrium, I saw that a large number of guests had already gathered around a long-case mahogany clock with a brass face and a platform upon which the hidden mechanical figures would revolve. I’d seen similar clocks in other museums.
Isla, wearing cotton gloves, opened both the clock’s upper and lower doors, exposing a complicated mechanism of weights, gears, and pendulums.
More guests were joining the crowd, among them Quinn Pearce. She was with the tall, silver-haired couple—the man who’d warned Teddy Pearce to tone down his accusations and his equally tall wife.
I leaned over the railing, gazing down at the ground floor to see if Tom had returned yet. He hadn’t, but I noticed Dr. Hawksworthy in what looked like a tense conversation with Gideon Littlejohn. Hawksworthy stabbed his finger into Littlejohn’s chest. As Littlejohn turned away, Hawksworthy grabbed his arm. Littlejohn wrenched free. Hawksworthy shook his head and strode off toward the stairs. He was needed for the clock demonstration.
I was still watching Littlejohn, puzzled by what I’d seen, when Teddy Pearce appeared. He gestured sharply, causing Littlejohn to step backward. Pearce threw up his arms.
What was that all about? Were there undercurrents swirling around the museum that Tom and I hadn’t detected? Apparently so.
“Excuse me, folks—coming through.” The crowd gathered around the clock hushed as Dr. Hawksworthy made his way to the front. “The Museum of Devon Life is truly fortunate to have this early-nineteenth-century automaton, thought to have been made in Gloucester.” Hawksworthy was slightly out of breath, perhaps from his dash up the stairs. “Throughout the day, on the hour, a series of figures from ordinary life appear—a butcher, dairymaid, parson, doctor, banker, country gentleman, blacksmith, and so on. I think you’ll recognize them. We don’t wind the clock on a regular basis—too much wear on the mechanisms. But you’ll see all the figures tonight because Ms. Ferris has set the clock for twelve. At that time, twice a day, all the figures appear, turning one by one to face the observer as they make their way across the stage, followed by the ominous figure of Death carrying a scythe. When that figure reaches center stage, you’ll see him swing the great curved blade, signifying the brevity of life and the certainty of death.”
Hawksworthy reached for a bank of switches on the wall, dimming the overhead lights and adjusting a spotlight that shone on the clock. Then, donning his own pair of cotton gloves, he signaled Isla, who stepped aside so he could set the automaton in motion. A bell sounded, and as the first of the mechanical figures appeared, Dr. Hawksworthy and Isla Ferris retreated into the crowd. Near me, at the back, stood the tall, silver-haired couple with Quinn Pearce. On their right, a woman with bright-red hair held a small boy. Opposite her was a tall man with a red face and a short man bouncing on his toes in an attempt to see over the crowd.
I watched, fascinated, as the mechanical figures began their slow, jerky procession. One by one, the wooden figures made their way across the stage of life, bowing before disappearing through the door on the opposite side. I thought of Jacques’s melancholy soliloquy in As You Like It: All the world’s a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances …
All eyes were fixed on the clock as Death made his entrance—a pale, gaunt figure, carrying a scythe nearly as tall as he was. I felt a chill, thinking about the lives of those who had witnessed this marvel for the first time. Death had been a constant and tangible presence in their lives. Their forebears were the lucky ones who’d survived the Black Death. Their descendants would experience the horrors of the First World War and the Spanish flu pandemic that killed one-third of the world’s population.
The clock struck slowly—twice, three times, four. Death had reached the center of the stage. You could have heard a pin drop. Was it my imagination, or did he appear to grin? I felt a sudden frisson of fear. I’d had enough. I wanted Tom and his solid warmth.
Backing away, I took a final look at the tableau vivant—Isla’s gold dress, shimmering in the light; the tall, silver-haired couple, leaning forward; the outline of Quinn’s spine as she bent her pale neck; the redheaded woman and her son; the tall man with the red face; the short man craning his neck to see.
I flew down the stairs, the bells still tolling. Scanning the crowd, I found Tom with Gideon Littlejohn near the drinks trolley.
“There you are,” Tom said. “I was about to—”
I heard a pop.
A tray of drink glasses shattered. People screamed. Then, bizarrely, there was a moment of shocked silence, broken only by the tolling of the clock’s twelfth and final chime.
“Get down, everyone,” Tom shouted. “Take cover. Active shooter.”
People around me scrabbled on their hands and knees. I crawled behind the drinks trolley. “Tom,” I called. “Are you all right?”
“Littlejohn’s been grazed.” Then, in a louder voice, “I’m a police officer. Where did the shot come from?”
“Upper floor,” someone called back. “First, I think.”
“Hawksworthy. Where are you?”
“On one. Everyone’s safe up here.”
“Same on two,” came a woman’s voice from high above.
“Stay where you are,” Tom said. “Don’t anyone move. I’m calling 999.”
“Already on the way, mate.” The voice was close, and I knew it. Teddy Pearce. I hadn’t seen him in the atrium, but he’d apparently taken cover close to the spot where Tom and Littlejohn were crouched.
Pearce stood. “It’s over, folks. They won’t try again.”
“You don’t know that, Pearce,” Tom shouted. “Get down. Stay where you are until the police arrive.”
“Sorry, mate. If they think they can intimidate me, they’ve got it wrong.”
“What do you mean?” Tom asked.
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? I was the target.”