Saturday, January 4
Coombe Mallet
We woke earlier than planned. Still keyed up from the shooting, we showered and dressed and headed down for an early breakfast. After shamelessly indulging at the Old Bell, I’d promised myself I’d have something light, maybe fruit and an English muffin. But when Tom ordered the full English—scrambled eggs with locally made sausages and all the trimmings—I weakened. And enjoyed every bite.
With our stomachs full, we headed back up to our room. The crime scene team was still processing the museum, and since our appointment at the Old Merchant’s House wasn’t until eleven, we had time to read and answer emails. Tom fell asleep almost immediately. I woke him at ten fifteen. “Time to go soon.”
The day was cold and gray. Since rain was drizzling down, we layered waterproofs over our warm jackets and took the Rover. We arrived at Gideon Littlejohn’s house a few minutes early and parked on the street.
The Old Merchant’s House was a four-story, flat-fronted brick structure built directly on the pavement. The entrance was framed by glossy white columns. We stood on the doorstep, huddled under our umbrella. Tom used the door knocker, and in moments a small, neat woman opened the door. She was dressed in a long, dove-gray dress with a high buttoned collar and a starched white bib-top apron. Her gray hair was pulled into a bun and topped with a lace-trimmed mobcap. She stepped aside, allowing us entry into a paneled hall with an unlit fireplace and a steep, U-shaped staircase. “Good morning, sir, madam. May I help you?”
I stared at her, speechless.
Tom, unruffled as always, jumped in. “I’m Tom Mallory. This is my wife, Kate Hamilton. We have an appointment at eleven with Mr. Littlejohn.”
“Very good, sir. If you’ll wait here, I’ll see if Mr. Littlejohn is at home.” She must have seen the question on my face, because her mouth curved up in a smile. “The answer is he pays well.” She scurried off.
I looked at Tom. He shrugged.
I noticed a small keypad on the wall near the entrance. Interesting. A Victorian gentleman with a security system.
The housekeeper reappeared, completely back in character. “This way, if you please. Mr. Littlejohn will receive you in the morning room.”
We followed her along a corridor to an octagonal-shaped room with banks of windows overlooking the back garden.
Littlejohn stood to greet us. He was dressed in a dark frock coat, buff-colored trousers, and a plaid waistcoat. In spite of the bandage on his cheek, he appeared to be in high spirits. “Ah, the Mallorys.” He consulted his gold pocket watch. “Right on time. Welcome to the Old Merchant’s House. Mrs. Grey, will you kindly bring tea?”
“Of course, sir.” She bobbed a curtsey.
“Must be nice, having a housekeeper,” I said when she was out of earshot.
“Housekeeper and cook. Beryl has been with me for nearly a year now. I’ve begun to advertise for a live-in cook and butler. If you’re going to do something, why do it by halves?”
Why indeed, if you have the money. Cybersecurity must pay well.
“How’s your injury?” I asked.
“It’s nothing,” he said, nonchalant for someone who’d been inches from death mere hours ago. “Come, let’s sit by the fire.”
Tom and I chose a small, patterned sofa. Littlejohn sat across from us in one of two matching scroll-arm chairs. I wanted to ask him about his conversations—arguments?—with Hugo Hawksworthy and Teddy Pearce the night before but couldn’t think how to broach the subject without sounding intrusive. It was, after all, none of my business.
“I feel as if we’ve stepped into a museum,” Tom said.
“Oh, it’s very much a home. I mentioned last night that I’m taking the house back to its original condition—or as close as I can come. There are a number of health-and-safety regulations I can’t get around. And a few practicalities.”
I smiled. “Like a security system?”
He looked almost embarrassed. “Yes. The work I do requires a high level of security.”
“When was the house built?” Tom asked.
“It was completed in 1838. The original owner was a draper—a seller of fine wool, linen, and silk. The ground floor was his shop, which is why there’s no front garden. In the early 1880s, he retired and sold the house to a lawyer with a wife and three children. They did extensive updating, including adding this room at the rear of the structure. The real architectural damage was done around the time of the First World War when the house was divided into flats. Later it was a boarding house.”
“And you’ve rescued it.”
“Yes, I suppose I have.”
I thought of Teddy Pearce. Sometimes people needed rescuing too.
Beryl Grey appeared with a tea tray. She bumped the door closed with her hip and set the tray on a drum table near the windows. Besides tea, she’d brought several kinds of biscuits.
“When did you become interested in the Victorian era?” Tom asked.
Littlejohn smiled. “What you really mean is why do I live like a Victorian?”
“That too,” Tom admitted. “You’ve chosen a unique hobby.”
“Oh, it’s not a hobby,” Littlejohn said. “It’s a way of life, and the answer’s simple. I choose to live this way because it makes me happy.”
“A very good reason, then,” I said.
“I’m part of a group—an unofficial club, you might call it. We all choose to re-create the past, although we’re each at a different stage. Some simply dress occasionally in Victorian clothing. Others, like myself, extend our interest into our daily lives. I publish a bimonthly video podcast on YouTube. It’s become quite popular.”
“How do you take your tea?” Beryl Grey hovered over me with the teapot.
“Milk and two sugars.” She poured milk, added the tea and two sugar cubes, and handed me the porcelain cup.
After pouring out for Tom and Littlejohn, she bobbed another curtsy and left the room.
As we drank our tea, Littlejohn told us more about his fascination with all things Victorian. “It started when I was a child. One day I met an old man in the park, feeding the ducks. He was terribly deformed—something wrong with his spine. Looking back, I think he must have been in great pain, but he never complained. He lived in a terraced house not far away. I started going there, occasionally at first, later almost every day. He was lonely. So was I. We became friends. Everything in his house was ancient, or so it seemed to me then. He told me stories about the old days. Showed me old books—histories, old maps and engravings. I was fascinated. His house was a kind of sanctuary for me. I was a little chap then. Didn’t get my growth spurt until later, so I was bullied. The old man was too. It was a bond between us. He was the one who instilled in me an interest in history.”
“Was it his household you purchased?” I asked.
“Oh, no. I wish I’d had the chance.”
“What happened to him?”
“He died in a house fire.” Littlejohn placed his teacup carefully in the saucer and looked away. A door had been shut and barred.
He’d told us more than he intended.
A sudden smile transformed his face. “But you’re not here to learn about my past. You’re here about the bloodstained dress.”
“Which you purchased at auction,” Tom said.
“As I told you last night, the entire household was sold as a lot. Seems the family of the man who’d passed away wanted a quick sale.”
“When was this?” I asked.
“Last summer. I found the dress in a trunk with a collection of other objects—sort of a time capsule. I don’t think anyone had looked inside for years.”
Time capsule? That sounded promising.
“I gave the smaller items to the museum along with the dress. One thing I saved for myself.” He got up and went to a side window, where he pulled back a heavy drape. Within the alcove formed by a wide bay sat a small domed-lid trunk, the kind used for travel.
Littlejohn carried the trunk to the hearth and opened the lid. The interior was lined with a fine-print fabric in pale yellow. Folded inside was a patchwork quilt, cunningly patterned from various scraps of fabric in a riot of colors. “I thought about using the quilt on one of the beds, but some of the fabrics are quite fragile. Even so, I’m reluctant to let it go.”
Littlejohn placed the quilt on my lap. The design was the kind the Victorians had loved—irregular shapes of fabric, mostly silk-satins and velvets, sewn onto a foundation and outlined with a variety of elaborate embroidery stitches. The beauty was in the design and the colors, skillfully chosen and placed for maximum effect. I peered closer, feeling a sort of warm glow or something akin to the buzz you get after a couple of glasses of wine—my usual reaction to beautiful objects and fine workmanship. The stitching was incredibly delicate and precise. I thought of Julia Kelly’s comment about the bloodstained dress—workmanship rivaling that of the French couturiers. Had Nancy Thorne’s sister, Sally, made both the dress and the quilt? If so, I could see her using scraps of fabric from the dresses she’d created for wealthy village women. Once before, in Scotland, a quilt had been a clue to a mysterious death. “It’s gorgeous. A real treasure.”
Tom placed his teacup on a side table. “What can you tell us about the man who owned these things?”
“Almost nothing except that he died. His niece, his only surviving relative, didn’t want the hassle of going through everything, so her lawyer organized an auction.”
“Was he someone you knew?”
“Never heard of him. I was looking through the listings and saw the Victorian fixtures.”
“You realize we’re looking for a connection between this man and the Thorne sisters,” I said. “Have you found one?”
“Just the note I told you about last night. As I said, I haven’t had a chance to look through the other items in the lot. I plan to do that when my work settles down.”
“Would you mind if we took the trunk and the quilt with us?” I asked. “I’d like Julia Kelly to see them.”
Littlejohn looked up sharply. “No—that’s not possible.” His tone was almost harsh, which he seemed to realize. “But you’re welcome to return and study the quilt anytime. Or look through the other items in the lot if you wish. I’ll tell Mrs. Grey. She can prepare a room for you to work in. The dining room still has electrical outlets, and the Wi-Fi signal is strong there.”
“I understand,” I said, although I didn’t—not completely. Did he imagine we’d steal something? “Is tomorrow too soon? As Tom mentioned earlier, our time here is limited.”
“Tomorrow afternoon should work. Mrs. Grey will be free by twelve forty-five. I always take my midday meal at twelve thirty. Would you care to join me?”
“Very kind,” Tom said, “but we’ll get straight to work, if that’s all right.”
I felt slightly disappointed. It would have been interesting to see what a Victorian gentleman had for lunch.
Tom stood and extended his hand. “Thank you for your time.”
“My pleasure. I hope to see you tomorrow.”
On the way out, we made arrangements with Beryl Grey to return at twelve forty-five the following day. She showed us to the door, and, donning our rain gear again, we emerged into the twenty-first century.
Back in the Rover, I pulled off my hood and shook out my hair. Storm clouds were gathering. At least we’d been warned. In the winter, Devon and Cornwall are the wettest counties in England.
“It’ll be interesting to see the other items found in the trunk,” I said. “The ones at the museum. They might offer a clue.”
I tried to picture the trunk as Littlejohn had found it. The lovely quilt. A calico dress, washed but stained with blood. And pinned to it, a note saying it belonged to the murderess Nancy Thorne. Who’d written the note—and why hadn’t Hawksworthy shown it to us?