The Art of Betrayal

know what’s what with that art collection—if there’d been any funny business going on. We need professional advice. There’d be a small stipend.”
I stared at him. “Are you asking for my help?”
“If Ivor can spare you,” Tom said. “Mrs. Villiers was an elderly woman, living alone with a fortune in art and antiques. An easy target for thieves.”
“The point is,” Eacles said unpleasantly, “oother items may be missing as well. You said the woman had records. We need an inventory by someone who knows what they’re about.”
“Have you spoken with Mrs. Villiers’s solicitor?” I asked Tom. “There may have been a valuation done at the time of Wallace Villiers’s death.”
“If there was, I’ll let you know.”
“We’d be grateful for your help,” Eacles said, flattening out the a sound in grateful. He smiled, revealing large yellow teeth. Never turn your back on him, girlie.
Well, this was something I hadn’t anticipated. I’d be helping the Suffolk Constabulary make sense of whatever secrets Wallace Villiers’s art collection might reveal. Still, my first priority was Ivor—and locating the húnpíng jar, if possible.
“I’ll do what I can.”
Tom shut his black notebook. “We’d like you to begin as soon as possible. The forensics team will be finished at Hapthorn Lodge in two or three days. Are you available?”
“I can be.”
Someone tapped on the door. “Sorry to interrupt, guv.” DS Ryan Cliffe’s large placid face peered at us. “It’s Lucy Villiers. Looks like we’ve got a misper on our hands.” Cliffe handed Tom a folder.
I looked at Tom. “A misper?”
“Missing person.” He opened the folder. “Fourth of January 2003. Miss W. Villiers of 34 Lark Court, Dunmow Parva, Essex, reported her niece, Lucy Villiers, missing. As the girl was eighteen and there was no indication of foul play, the search was called off.”
Eacles leaned back in his chair, causing the plastic to crack. “That’s great. All we need.”
After the interview, Tom and I walked to The Dog & Partridge, a traditional chain pub five minutes from police headquarters.
I grabbed a table in the bar while Tom ordered two coffees.
“Three things,” I said when he joined me. “I didn’t want to mention them around DCI Eacles.”
“No one ever does. That’s his problem.”
“Well, the first is unrelated to the case. Do you have time to check out that new auction house on the road to Sudbury? I looked them up. One of the owners is an ex-estate agent named Nigel Oakley. The business is actually run by his son and a business partner. Lady Barbara is thinking about placing several items there. I want to make sure they’re on the up-and-up.”
“I’ll see what I can find. What’s the second?”
“Vivian knew the victim was Evelyn Villiers last night—before the newspaper article this morning. She said everyone at the fair knew.”
Tom shrugged. “Things get out. Don’t ask me how.” He emptied a packet of milk into his coffee and swirled it with his spoon. “And the third?”
“There’s a woman in Long Barston—Ertha Green, Ralston’s mother. Vivian said she kept house for the Villiers family years ago. I’d like to ask her if she knows anything about the daughter, Lucy. Ivor asked me to find her. Do you mind? If the húnpíng jar isn’t recovered, he’ll have to arrange for restitution.”
Tom reached out and touched my cheek. “I trust you, Kate—you know that. Your instincts are sound, and your judgment is impeccable. You notice things others don’t—connections, odd coincidences most people pass over as unimportant. It’s a gift. You’ve proven it. But focus on the art collection. Your knowledge of antiques is what we need. That’s why I pushed for you with Eacles. I have to tell you he wasn’t keen.”
“I got that impression.”
“Did I put you on the spot? I know you have your hands full with the shop.”
“If you want to know the truth, Inspector Mallory, I’m delighted. I’ve been dying to see the Villiers Collection.” I shot him a smile. “Now I don’t have to break in.”
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t make a joke, Kate. What I’m trying to say is, I trust you, but I’m not willing to take risks.”
I started to protest, but he raised a hand. “If you get mixed up in the investigation and Eacles hears of it, there’ll be hell to pay. Eacles doesn’t like me. He’s biding his time, waiting for a reason to push me out. Besides—”
“Besides what?”
“I don’t want you taking any chances. Remember last Christmas—the roof at Finchley Hall?”
He looked so earnest, I couldn’t help myself.
“I’m pretty sure I’ll be safe. Ertha Green’s almost ninety.”

Chapter Ten
Monday, May 6
At seven fifteen the next morning, Lady Barbara telephoned, summoning Vivian and me to Finchley Hall at ten o’clock. She and Francie Jewell—her cook, lady’s maid, and cleaner, rolled into one—had assembled several potential sale items for me to evaluate. I had plenty of time. Ivor’s antiquities shop was still off-limits while the crime scene team gathered evidence. Finding something that would lead them to the killer’s identity was unlikely, Tom had admitted. The perpetrator was probably a professional thief. That worried me. If he got in once, he could get in again.
At breakfast, Vivian handed me the local newspaper. “You’ll be interested to know the local shop owner who discovered the break-in at Ivor’s shop was Henry Liu—and his son.”
I refrained from saying I know. Why spoil her fun?
Opening the paper, I scanned the short article. The Suffolk police had issued an official statement, giving a quick overview of the case but keeping the details and their lines of inquiry to themselves.
Vivian stacked her breakfast dishes in the sink. “I spoke with Yasmin Green this morning. Your interview with Ertha will have to wait. The old lady is staying with one of her nieces in Torquay—an annual two-week respite for Yasmin and Ralston. She’ll be home on Friday.”
Rats. I’d hoped that Ertha, the Villiers’s old housekeeper, could tell me about Lucy and what really happened the night her father died. I admit to curiosity. And Ertha might know Lucy’s current