The Art of Betrayal

she collapsed. Her death is believed to be connected to the theft of a valuable Chinese urn.”
“They mean the húnpíng jar,” I said pointlessly.
“The owner of a nearby restaurant found the back entrance to the antiquities shop open, saw the blood, and called police. A representative of the Suffolk Constabulary told reporters, ‘More details will be made public as we receive them.’ Anyone with knowledge of this crime is asked to contact the police station at Bury St. Edmunds.”
“Which nearby restaurant?” The tremor in Ivor’s voice got my attention. This was not going to help his recovery.
“The Chinese takeaway.” I told Ivor what Henry Liu had said about running out of shrimp rolls and riding his bicycle to the restaurant for more.
“How did these people get into the shop?”
“There was no sign of a break-in. Have you given a key to anyone besides me?”
“Never.” Ivor’s forehead creased. “Was the alarm set?”
“Yes, of course. I remember wondering what would happen if I messed up and the alarm went off.”
“It wouldn’t, Kate. It’s a silent alarm. Monitored remotely. If the cancel code wasn’t entered within a minute, the alarm center would have contacted the police first, then me.” He gave me a sheepish look. “Are you absolutely certain you armed the system?”
I couldn’t blame him for asking. I laid my hand on his. “I’m as certain as I can possibly be, Ivor. Truly. And even if I had forgotten the alarm, the rear security door locks automatically. They couldn’t have gotten in without a key. The police are checking for CCTV camera footage. Maybe that will shed some light.”
“Ha! I doubt the village has more than two or three cameras. And those are probably on the blink. You say Henry Liu raised the alarm?”
“Do you know him?”
“Nice family—wife, son, daughter-in-law. Henry’s a quiet chap. Keeps himself to himself.”
“He was pretty shaken up.”
“You were there? How did that happen?”
I told him about the May Fair and the play. “The EMTs had just confirmed Mrs. Villiers’s death when Tom got the call about the break-in.”
“What will happen now?”
“The shop will have to remain closed while the police process the scene.” I felt a lump in my throat. “Then I’ll be able to have a good look around, to make sure, um … nothing else was stolen.”
“I should be there, Kate. This isn’t fair on you.” He was taking this better than I’d expected.
“I’ll be fine. My mother asked if you have insurance.”
“For cleanup crews and alarm repairs? Yes.” His eyes glistened, and I realized with horror he was trying not to cry.
“Theft?” I almost hated to ask.
“Twenty thousand pounds,” he said miserably. “With a five-thousand-pound deductible. If I insured everything for its retail value, the cost would be prohibitive. That’s why I invested in security.” He sat for a moment without speaking. “Reimbursing the estate for the húnpíng will mean selling things, no question. It can be done, Kate, but it will take time. If the insurance company gets involved, there’ll be a lawsuit, publicity. My reputation will be ruined.”
“What can I do?” I reached out for his hand. “Anything. Just ask.”
“Find Lucy Villiers. Talk to her. If the police don’t recover the húnpíng, I’m going to owe her a lot of money. See if she’s willing to give me time to raise the cash.”
“I’ll do my best—I promise. Try not to worry. Whatever happens, we’re in this together.”

Chapter Nine
I drove straight from The Willows to Bury St. Edmunds.
Tom met me in the lobby of the Suffolk Constabulary on Raingate Street. He looked cool and professional in a pair of tailored trousers and a white shirt, with his police ID on a lanyard around his neck. This time his smile did little to cheer me up. I was still thinking about Ivor raising thousands of pounds in cash to reimburse Evelyn Villiers’s estate for the value of the húnpíng jar. He might never recover financially. He wasn’t a young man, and for better or worse, his nest egg consisted almost entirely of fine objects, not pounds and pence in a bank account.
The lobby of the station was lined with posters informing visitors of various neighborhood safety programs and warning constituents about the dangers of drugs. A portrait of the Queen hung over a large clock. Tom introduced me to two constables behind an open glass partition. Then we passed through a door into the inner sanctum, three floors of offices and meeting rooms where the officers of the Suffolk Constabulary, Western Division, fought crime and maintained peace within the limits of an ever-shrinking budget.
Tom had an office on the second floor, with a single window overlooking the covered motor pool. His desk was stacked with papers. A framed photograph of his wife, Sarah, hung on the wall. Beaming into the camera, she held a chubby toddler of about two—their daughter, Olivia, now almost nineteen.
Love and loss. Tom and I had known them both.
I took the chair nearest his desk and handed him an envelope containing the consignment agreement Mrs. Villiers had signed and the copies he’d requested. The original would go to forensics.
Tom spread the photocopies on his desk and scanned the pages, stopping to examine the personal information and the signature on the final page. “I’ll be recording our conversation, Kate—routine. The consignment agreement and the notes I’ve already taken will be incorporated into the case file.”
“I’ll text you the photographs of the húnpíng jar.”
I was about to tell him the victim’s name had been common knowledge in Long Barston before the newspaper reported it, when someone rapped on the door. A man entered, and I had a sudden picture of the old boar on my Norwegian grandmother’s farm—pink face, leathery snout, chip on his shoulder.
Tom stood. “Kate Hamilton, this is Detective Chief Inspector Dennis Eacles. He’d like to sit in on the interview.” Eacles’s trousers were held up by a low-slung belt. The fabric of his navy sports jacket strained across his arms and shoulders.
“A great pleasure, ma’am,” Eacles said without