The Art of Betrayal

The Art of Betrayal
A Kate Hamilton Mystery
CONNIE BERRY


For David and John


Myths do not happen all at once. They do not spring forth whole into the world. They form slowly, rolled between the hands of time until their edges smooth, until the saying of the story gives enough weight to the words—to the memories—to keep them rolling on their own.
—V. E. Schwab, A Conjuring of Light


 Acknowledgments
Readers familiar with the English county of Suffolk will know there is no village called Long Barston. That wonderful place, including its inhabitants, history, and folklore, is entirely a product of my imagination. So is the shadowy organization I’ve named The White Lotus Society, although the history of the sacking of the Old Summer Palace in Beijing during the Second Opium War (1860) is a historical fact. It is also true that in 1982 the Chinese government made the repatriation of its cultural heritage a constitutional mandate.
Even so, I would like to think that although the events in this book did not happen, they might have, and for that I must thank a number of people in the United Kingdom: Detective Inspector Tamlyn Burgess of the Suffolk Constabulary; Harry Boswell, Director of Operations and Consultancy for the National Trust; Lauren Booth of the Suffolk Coroners Service; and Henry Heath, Assistant Priest at Holy Trinity Church, Long Melford.
I owe a huge debt of gratitude to those who read and commented on my manuscript at various stages—Grace Topping, Charlene D’Avanzo, and Lynn Denley-Bussard. I value their wisdom and treasure their friendship. Lynn, in particular went well beyond the call of duty in correcting, advising, and encouraging me in the process of writing this book.
Thank you to the crew at Crooked Lane Books, especially my editor, Faith Black Ross. And thank you to my agent, Paula Munier. Without their help, this book wouldn’t exist.
Finally, I am immensely grateful for the love, support, and encouragement of my husband, who, in lieu of travel this year, has watched enough British television to develop an accent.
This book is dedicated to my sons, David and John. Love you forever!
Soli Deo gloria


Chapter One
Long Barston, Suffolk, England
The fourth of May was one of those glorious spring days in England that almost convince you nothing evil could ever happen again. Mild, green-scented air wafted through the open door of Ivor Tweedy’s antiquities shop. A curious bumblebee meandered inside, had a quick look around, and buzzed out again in search of the window boxes along Long Barston’s main street.
I was perched on a stool behind the counter, polishing silver, when I heard a soft cough.
She stood framed in the doorway, clutching a large striped tote bag as if it held her firstborn—a ridiculous image because the woman had to be in her late sixties. Her thick, iron-gray hair was pulled into a coil at her neck, and she wore a pair of those light-sensing eyeglasses that never quite achieve transparency. She was obviously ill at ease, which in itself wasn’t unusual. Antiques shops often attract timid souls hoping to raise a little cash by selling grandma’s pearls or grandpa’s collection of vintage cameras. They come expecting to be cheated.
“Hello.” I pulled off my latex gloves and came around the counter, feeling like a kindergarten teacher on the first day of school. “Welcome to The Cabinet of Curiosities.”
The woman stepped into the shop. I couldn’t see her eyes behind the darkened lenses, but she seemed more wary than timid, which set off alarm bells. Twice in my life I’d been offered stolen property—in both cases, the items brought in by dodgy-looking men in their twenties. This woman looked respectable, even old-fashioned. She wore a well-cut linen skirt, a crisp white blouse, and flat orthopedic sandals. An expensive but well-worn Gucci handbag hung from one bone-thin arm. “I was expecting the owner, Ivor Tweedy.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Tweedy is recovering from surgery. I’m filling in while he recuperates.”
“You’re American.” Her lips thinned in disapproval.
“I am.” Obviously.
Once, this woman had been quite beautiful. I could see it in her bone structure, the line of her mouth, the way she held her head and shoulders.
She studied me for a moment. Her eyes shifted to the small-paned front window. “Is there somewhere more private we could speak?”
“Of course.” I grabbed the binder Ivor used to record sales and commissions. “Just let me lock up.” I closed the shop door, shot the bolt, and flipped the “Open” sign in the window to “Closed.”
“My name is Kate Hamilton. And yours?” When she didn’t answer, I tried another tack. “Have you brought something for appraisal?”
“Not for appraisal, no.” Now that she’d been out of the sun for a few minutes, her glasses had partially lightened, allowing me a glimpse of pale, hooded eyes. “I have something I wish to sell.”
I led her through a maze of display cases to an alcove furnished with an early Regency pedestal table and two folding campaign chairs that, according to Ivor, had traveled with Wellington into the Battle of Waterloo.
Once we were seated, the woman settled the carryall on her lap and peeled down the fabric, exposing a large, roundish object swathed in Bubble Wrap.
“Be careful. It’s heavy.” She handed the bundle to me.
“Well, let’s take a look.” I placed the object on the table and used the edge of my thumbnail to peel back a strip of clear tape. That’s when I felt it—the tingling in my fingertips, the flush of heat in my cheeks, the pounding of my heart against my ribcage. I’ve experienced these symptoms from childhood in the presence of an object of great age and beauty.
Some would call it a gift. I’ve always thought of it as an affliction. My father, who taught me about antiques, had half-jokingly called me a divvy—an antique whisperer—born with the ability to spot the single treasure hidden among the trash that frequently passes for antiques. He wasn’t right, of course. My eyes can be fooled by a masterful fake as