Friday, January 17
Dartmoor National Park
Our final day in Devon was cold but sunny, with high clouds sailing over the moor. Yvie Innes at the Crown packed a picnic basket for us, and we took off in the Rover for the village of Chalcombe, forty minutes north of Coombe Mallet. We wanted to see the graves from Widdecombe Throop.
“Too bad we won’t have time to stop at Fouroaks,” Tom said. “I’m sorry, darling. I really wanted you to see it.”
“There’s always summer. And Uncle Nigel will be there then. I like him, Tom, and I think I’ll like Devon even better when the weather’s just a little warmer.”
He laughed. “And without a murder.”
“Yes. Definitely no more murders.”
Maggie Hughes had phoned at seven, waking us up. She’d stayed up until three in the morning, scanning through the census records. “No wonder we couldn’t find William Tucker,” she’d said. “He’d changed his name to William Heron, and he moved to Plymouth. People could do that then. No official documents needed. Your theory was correct, Kate. Billy Cole was Luke Heron’s great-grandson. I’ll text you my results.”
We drove over the high, barren moorland. A flock of sheep grazed contentedly, enjoying the sun on their woolly backs.
I was looking at my phone, reading Maggie’s text, when Tom said, “William ran away from home, believing his mother had murdered his father. William must have lived the rest of his life believing that both he and his father had been betrayed by the Thorne sisters. That’s incredibly sad, isn’t it?”
“According to Maggie, William Heron eventually married and had a daughter. She married a man named Cole. William must have given the trunk to her, and she passed it on to her son, Billy.”
“Who gave it to Gordon Little aka Gideon Littlejohn.”
“Who vowed to find the truth about his murdered ancestor.”
“Out of loyalty or guilt?” Tom asked.
“We’ll never know. But that’s why Gideon Littlejohn was so determined to learn what actually happened the night of September seventh. He wanted to prove Nancy Thorne was a murderess—for Billy’s sake. That’s why he forged that note.” I leaned over and kissed Tom’s shoulder. “And now Gideon is dead. Another tragedy.”
“Nancy and Luke never got their future, and for William’s sake, she could never acknowledge him as her son.”
Chalcombe was a tiny village tucked into a fold of land on the north side of the reservoir. We found the small parish church, St. Brenden’s, with its neat graveyard bordered by pollarded yews. The verger must have seen us parking. He came out to meet us.
“Can I help you folks?”
“We’re hoping to see the graves relocated from Widdecombe Throop,” Tom said.
“Are you now? Most people have forgotten all about that. Come with me.” He led us to a well-tended corner of the graveyard. “I try to keep the stones clean, and we put flowers down on special holidays. Plastic ones in winter, but it’s the thought, isn’t it? Are you looking for anyone in particular?”
“Two graves—Queenie Squires and Nancy Thorne.”
“Are you related, by any chance?”
“No,” I said. “Just interested.”
The two graves weren’t far from each other. Both markers were simple limestone slabs, adorned with garish, flocked red poinsettias. Queenie’s marker bore a cross and read, Queenie Squires. Born 1800. Died Aug 25, 1885. “Her children shall rise up and call her blessed.” Prov 31:28.
Nancy Thorne’s stone said simply, Nancy Thorne, a Lacemaker. Born 1855. Died 1901. Rest in Peace.
“Is it all right if we stay for a while?” Tom asked. “We brought lunch.”
“Of course. Take all the time you need.” The verger left us, and we found a stone bench in the sun. I opened the basket, handed Tom a wrapped sandwich, and poured two plastic mugs of coffee from a flask.
“What’s happening with Isla Ferris?”
“Since she pled guilty, she’ll be sentenced by the Crown Court in Exeter.”
“Where’d she get the gun?”
“Oh, she arrived at Littlejohn’s house prepared. Stopped at the museum on the way and picked up a World War II pistol they had on display in the Devon at War exhibit. She knew how to load and fire it.” Tom found napkins in the picnic basket and gave me one. He spread his on his lap and unwrapped his sandwich. “Okoje wants me to stay in Devon until the sentencing. I told him no. If they need a statement, I can do it from Suffolk.”
“That brings up the big question, doesn’t it?” I took a bite of my sandwich, sliced chicken with chutney.
“The big question?”
“Will you take the DCI position at the Suffolk Constabulary or the job with Nash & Holmes?”
“It’s our decision, Kate—not just mine. What do you want?”
“Two simple things. I want you to be happy, and I want you to be safe.”
“Working on nice, safe historical puzzles—I remember you saying something like that.”
“Don’t tease me, Tom. How was I to know Littlejohn would be murdered? I’m asking you a serious question.”
“I know you are.”
“And I know where your mind and heart have been these past two weeks. The investigation into the dress was interesting, but it was the police investigation that put a spark in your eyes.”
He took a moment before answering. “I heard a parable once. Or maybe it was an allegory. I never get them straight. Anyway, it was a story about sheep and sheepdogs. The author—I think he was an American—said most people are like sheep. Not in a pejorative sense, not saying they’re dumb animals. But for the most part, they live peaceably in the flock. They don’t want to hurt each other, and they don’t, except by accident or under extreme provocation. But there are wolves out there too. They prey upon the sheep without mercy. If the wolves have a chance to harm the sheep, they’ll take it, and they look for the youngest, the weakest, the most vulnerable. That’s why the sheep need sheepdogs. Sheepdogs are annoying to the sheep when everything’s going well, but when the wolf comes, the sheep are glad, because sheepdogs live to protect the flock. Their instinct is to protect. When the sheep are in in danger, they come running.” He looked almost embarrassed. “Trust me—I’m not saying I’m some sort of hero. And the analogy is deeply flawed, of course, and incredibly simplistic. Human beings aren’t born into one of three categories. We have moral choices. We can change. We’ve seen that this week. Still”—he put his arm around me—“at heart I’m a sheepdog.”
“Well, that’s it, then, Detective Chief Inspector Mallory. You’re a sheepdog, and I’m an antiques dealer. Private investigations aren’t our thing.”
“Not so hasty, my darling. I told you I emailed my preliminary report to Grahame Nash. This morning, while you were talking to Maggie Hughes, he replied. Even if I don’t take the job with Nash & Holmes, they want you. He’s offering you a consulting job on investigations involving antiques and antiquities. What do you say?”