The Art of Betrayal

of the kids. She’d helped me price the stock at the antiques shop. She’d helped me restore our lovely Victorian house in the Jackson Falls historic district. When Bill died, I’d needed her more than ever. Tom had said it once: Linnea Larson was the fixed point in my life. My anchor.
Now I was being asked to share her with another family—a big, noisy family with children and grandchildren and cottages on lakes. They would sweep her into their orbit, leaving me on the outside.
A sob caught in my throat. Stupid. Selfish. Tears welled in my eyes.
What I felt—resentment, jealousy—was ugly, mean-spirited, and unfair. Not once had my mother even hinted that my feelings for Tom might take me away from her one day.
I blew out a furious breath and wiped my eyes.
I will not do this. I will not feel this. I will be glad for her.
Picking up my cell phone, I tapped out a text: Have a fabulous time at the lake! I love you. Then I attached the images I’d taken of the húnpíng jar and pushed “Send.”
I turned off the bedside lamp and lay in the dark.
Something niggled at the back of my mind. A question.
I heard Vivian rustling about in the kitchen below me. “Come on, then,” I heard her tell Fergus. “Walkies.”
Jumping out of bed, I called down to her. “Vivian, I’m curious. Who told you the body on the green was Evelyn Villiers?”
She appeared at the foot of the stairs, looking blank. “I don’t know. Everyone knew it.”
But how? No one had actually mentioned her name—I knew I hadn’t. Had someone recognized her after eighteen years?

Chapter Eight
Sunday, May 5
I arrived at The Willows at nine. Another glorious day was in the offing—temps in the upper sixties and warming with the sun. Definitely not a match for my mood.
The front door stood open.
“Welcome back, Mrs. Hamilton.” The cheerful woman behind the reception desk had remembered my name. “Mr. Tweedy will be delighted.”
I doubted that, given the news I had to tell him.
The words I’d practiced all morning sounded lame. Something’s happened, Ivor. Try not to get upset, but—
When I entered, he was sitting in the big leather chair by the French window, dressed in a spiffy paisley dressing gown. “Kate, just in time.” His blue eyes sparkled.
“Ivor,” I said, summoning my courage, “I have something to—”
“Not now, Kate. Look at this.” He shoved a catalog at me. The corner of one page had been turned down. An item was circled in black ink.
I pulled up the visitor’s chair and read: Previously unknown translation of the Little Domesday Book, ca. 1786, covering Essex, Norfolk, and Suffolk.
“Familiar with the Domesday Book, hmm?” The only thing Ivor loved better than testing my knowledge was catching me in some lapse.
“Of course.” I handed him the catalog. “It was the great survey—a sort of census record of England, ordered by William the Conqueror in 1085. Villages, family names, livestock, land.”
“And why was it called Domesday?” His blue eyes widened, all innocence.
“I think it means ‘doomsday,’ the Final Judgment, and if I remember correctly, the name came later.”
“Late twelfth century. But why Domesday?”
“Because of the comparison to the book mentioned in the Bible, the one recording the deeds of all mankind—a reminder that the Domesday records were final and could never be disputed. The ultimate authority.”
“And the Little Domesday Book?”
“All right, I don’t know. Never heard of it.”
“Ah, well.” He cocked his head, relishing the role of tutor. “The Domesday Book is actually two separate and independent documents, both written in Latin. Not many people know that. The Great Domesday Book is a summary of thirty-one English counties south of what was then the Scottish border, except for Essex, Norfolk, and Suffolk.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “The records for those three counties—the full, unabbreviated records, mind you, not summaries—are preserved in the Little Domesday Book, which is actually the bulkier of the two parchment folios. Smaller in dimensions, but fuller in details because the text is undigested—a virtual treasure trove of historical details, little-known facts, descriptions of local customs, even the musings of the commissioners assigned the task of gathering information.” He tapped the catalog. “This is a translation in English, made sometime in the mid-eighteenth century. I just put in a bid.”
“You bid on it?” This was not good news. “How much?”
“I do have the proceeds from the bronze statue and the auction,” he said with dignity, skirting the question. “I may have a shot.”
Just over five feet tall, Ivor looked even smaller since his surgery. And vulnerable. I felt a pang of affection for this dear elderly man who’d risked so much to help me the previous December. “But you need that money, Ivor. Some of it anyway.”
“I know, I know.” He waved his hand impatiently. “But the manuscript is as good as sold, Kate. I know a professor in Essex who will pay—”
His thought was preempted by the entrance of the young aide, Jay’den, looking fresh and cheerful in her crisp blue pinstriped tunic.
“Thought you might like today’s newspaper, Mr. Tweedy. Twenty minutes, mind. Then we’ll get you ready for physio.” She smiled at me. “He’s making tremendous progress. His legs are stronger than most people’s his age.”
“All those years at sea,” Ivor chirped. “The deck pitching and rolling.”
Jay’den breezed out, and Ivor unfolded the newspaper.
I gaped at the headline: “Long Barston Antiquities Shop Scene of Brutal Murder.”
His face crumpled.
“I’m sorry, Ivor. I should have phoned last night, but it was late, and I didn’t want to wake you. There was nothing you could do anyway.”
He made a high-pitched gurgling sound. “Read it to me.”
Ivor handed me the paper. I cleared my throat.
“The woman who died last night at the May Fair in Long Barston has been identified as Mrs. Evelyn Villiers of Hapthorn Lodge, Little Gosling. Police believe Mrs. Villiers was stabbed inside a well-known antiquities shop on the High Street. Fatally injured, she staggered several blocks to the village green, where