The Art of Betrayal

I wasn’t personally involved. Why do you ask?” He stood, gathering our paper plate and napkins.
“Evelyn Villiers, the widow, came in the shop today.” I grabbed both wineglasses and joined him. “She brought a piece of ancient Chinese pottery she wants to sell—it’s called a húnpíng jar. In fact, she implied she’d like us to handle her late husband’s entire art collection.”
“That’s a good thing, right?”
“Yes—but there’s more to the story. She said the reason she’s selling is so her daughter can’t inherit. Apparently, she blamed Lucy for causing her father’s death—sent her away to live with an aunt in Essex. I’d like to do some research. The last thing Ivor needs is to get involved in a family dispute.”
“I believe Villiers died of natural causes. I could request the file—if we still have it.”
“Could I see it? Is that possible?”
“Let’s find out if we have it first.” Tom tossed our trash in one of the large garbage bins.
I smiled as I placed our wineglasses with others on a tray stand. I’d known Tom less than a year, been in his company less than a month and a half, all told. But in that short time, my life had changed. As a widow, I’d been stuck in the past, throwing myself into my antiques business to fill the time. Now I had a future—even if I couldn’t yet see it.
The dying sun warmed the air. Nearby, children lined up outside a petting zoo enclosure, waiting for their turn to touch the shy, patient lambs and mischievous little goats. A cool breeze brought the mingled scent of farm animals and cotton candy, familiar from all the summers I’d taken Eric and Christine to the Ohio State Fair.
“Bet I can beat you at the coconut shy.” Tom grinned.
“You’re on.”
He did beat me when his third ball knocked down two coconuts, but I got my own back at the Hoopla when my wooden ring circled a bottle of Merlot on the third attempt. Pure luck, although the label looked suspiciously like England’s version of Two-Buck Chuck.
At eight thirty, we watched the dog show. The blue ribbon for Waggiest Tail was taken by a gregarious Airedale Terrier—well deserved. Fergus did win a blue ribbon, though—Most Handsome Dog, Golden Oldie Division. From the expression on Vivian’s face—and his—I think they were offended.
The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving a chill in the air and a rosy afterglow in the fresh-ink sky. I slipped on my cardigan and threaded my hand through Tom’s arm. A bubble of pleasure caught in my throat. I never imagined I could be this happy again.
A man trotted past us, dressed in medieval clothing and carrying a lute.
“The pageant will be starting soon,” I said.
Tom glanced at his watch. “Twenty minutes. Let’s find a place to watch.”
Some families had brought lawn chairs. Others spread blankets on the green, where sweaty, exhausted children could sleep off their sugar highs. Tom and I reclaimed our park bench and settled in. As the twilight deepened, a handbell choir from St. Æthelric’s entertained us with tunes from Camelot.
The Green Maiden pageant began at nine sharp. Several portable light stands illuminated the stage.
Tom put his arm around my shoulder. I leaned back against his chest.
“Look,” I said as the first actors took the stage. “There’s Vivian and Lady Barbara.”
They were dressed in rough, earth-colored woolen tunics. With her round face and stout figure, Vivian looked every inch the part. In contrast, Lady Barbara, even with a tattered shawl tied around her thin shoulders, couldn’t have looked less like a peasant if she’d been wearing a tiara. Vivian gave me a surreptitious wave as they milled with the other peasants in front of a painted canvas backdrop depicting a line of timbered houses and a stone bridge. A banner read “Year of Our Lord 1044.” Three musicians in medieval clothing were playing “Greensleeves.”
In the first act, a young man wearing knee britches and a leather jerkin dashed onto the stage, waving his arms and looking generally gobsmacked. As the peasants gathered around to see what all the fuss was about, a second man in similar clothes appeared, leading a girl wearing a faux-leather shift by the arm. Her skin was the color of moss. Seeing the green maiden, the peasants fell to their knees and crossed themselves.
I leaned over. “Where’s the dialogue?”
“It’s pantomime,” Tom whispered.
A bit of flirting between the green maiden and a peasant youth ended in a wedding when the singularly miscast clergyman—Stephen Peacock from The Finchley Arms—made the sign of the cross over them.
In the next scene, a thatched canopy was carried onstage—a cottage, I supposed. The green maiden, dressed now in a long tunic and wimple, sat with her husband at a rough wooden table. His hand grasped an oversized tankard, but he appeared to have passed out. The green maiden produced a vial from within her tunic, cackled at the audience, and poured a measure of red liquid into the tankard. Waking up, her husband swilled his ale and belched. The crowd roared with laughter. The husband stood, clutched his stomach, and staggered off stage. Immediately, a mob of angry villagers carrying clubs and ropes surrounded the cottage. Inside, the green maiden cowered. Oh, dear. Four men unfurled a length of blue cloth and waved it gradually above their heads. Rising water? When the sheet dropped, the green maiden lay dead. Four men carried her offstage.
Everyone clapped.
“Is that it?” I asked. “Is it over?”
“Not quite,” Tom said. “First we get a nice speech by the lord of the manor, then the curtain call.”
The medieval lord—Mr. Cox, the local butcher—swaggered on stage in green velvet doublet and breeches, far from historically accurate, but oh, well. He gave a nice speech about accepting those who are different from ourselves. Finally, the entire cast filed out.
The crowd applauded wildly. The cast members were taking their final bows when a disturbance arose, stage left. Someone appeared out of the shadows.
The audience screamed and sprang