The Art of Betrayal

a dark van coming and going from Hapthorn, mostly at night. Some say a plain panel van; others insist it had some kind of logo.”
“It makes sense. If Mrs. Villiers never went out, she’d have had things delivered.”
Tom turned left at the village green, and we headed in the direction of Little Gosling.
“Did Mrs. Wright identify the body?” I shuddered at the thought. “I’m sure she never guessed her duties would include viewing her employer’s remains.”
“Cliffe drove her to the mortuary yesterday. She recognized Mrs. Villiers, all right, even though she said her orders were usually communicated in writing—notes left on the kitchen counter. She thought it was an odd way of working, but the pay was enough to allow for a few eccentricities.”
“You said you’d identified most of the fingerprints. Were there others?”
“Two sets we’ve yet to identify and a partial third. According to Mrs. Wright, one set probably belonged to a village man who did occasional work in the garden—and another, a younger man she’d seen once or twice as she was leaving. An odd-jobs man—or possibly a relative.”
“The owner of the dark van, maybe. Did she say anything about Lucy?”
“She claims she didn’t know Mrs. Villiers had a daughter. There were no photographs in the house, something she considered odd.”
“But didn’t Lucy grow up in Little Gosling?”
“Yes, but Mrs. Wright didn’t. She moved from London several years ago to look after her two grandchildren. That ended when her son got a job in Manchester. By that time, the children were in school and she’d gotten used to village life, so when the job at Hapthorn Lodge came up, she decided to take it.”
“Does anyone in Little Gosling remember Lucy Villiers?”
“Of course, but no one’s heard from her since she moved to Essex.”
“What was the name of the town again?”
“Dunmow Parva, about thirty miles south of Long Barston. Cliffe did doorstep interviews there yesterday.”
“Did he learn anything useful?”
“No one remembers the girl. Of course, not many lived there eighteen years ago. It’s a transient neighborhood—starter homes. Winnifred Villiers—Wallace’s younger sister—died about a year after Lucy left. No children, never married. According to the file, she woke one morning to find Lucy and all her belongings gone. No note, no explanation. She notified the police, but as there was no sign of foul play and Lucy was eighteen, the search was called off. Adults have the right to disappear.”
“Could she have eloped with Colin Wardle after all?”
“We haven’t located him either.”
“Another dead end, then.”
“That’s often the way with a cold case, Kate. Those originally involved have either died or moved on. Memories fade. The evidence has degraded or been lost—or never existed in the first place.”
“What are the chances of finding Lucy now?”
“That’s turned out to be a bit of a puzzle. There’s no record of her death in the UK, but she hasn’t held a job or paid taxes in the last eighteen years.”
“Maybe she changed her name. Or doesn’t want to be found.”
“Not even for six hundred thousand pounds?”
“That’s what she’ll inherit?”
“Plus the art collection and whatever’s left from her mother’s estate. Quite a motive for murder.”
Tom had a point, although the thought of a child killing a parent made me ill. “What if you never find Lucy? Who inherits then?”
“Wallace Villiers had another sister, the eldest, in Melbourne. She went out to Australia with her husband, a civil servant, and stayed. The solicitor is checking to see if she’s still living or has children.”
Children who traveled back to England in order to claim the inheritance?
The sky had darkened. A soft drizzle blurred the windshield. Tom turned on the wipers.
“Almost there.”
I leaned back in my seat and thought about Wallace Villiers’s art collection. I’d spent part of the previous evening combing the internet. What I’d found was a spread in the September 2002 edition of the magazine Suffolk Country Life, glossy photographs and all. One photo had especially caught my attention.
Wallace Villiers stood in front of a black marble fireplace, one gold-ringed hand resting on the high mantel near a Meissen figural group. Wallace Villiers’s latest acquisition, said the caption, a rare Meissen figural group, The Mockery of Age, modeled by Johann Joachim Kändler, ca. 1740 to 1745. A second photo of the porcelain grouping alone showed an elderly man, holding a crutch and leaning to kiss a young lady at his side. Behind him, Harlequin poised to crown him with feathers while another Commedia dell’arte figure offered him a plate of celery. The oval base was applied with flowers and foliage.
I’d printed out the images on Vivian’s old inkjet printer and shoved them into my tote bag.
Villiers had been impressive, tall and well built, with a square jaw and head of thick dark hair. His wife, Evelyn, had been mentioned in the article, but not pictured. Another indication, I supposed, that she hadn’t shared her husband’s interest in art and antiques. Or perhaps she was reclusive even then.
At the signpost for Little Gosling, we turned into a narrow lane, bounded on both sides by hedgerows. The road widened every now and again to allow for oncoming traffic, but we met no other cars.
I flinched as Tom swerved to avoid a pothole. “I asked Vivian and Lady Barbara who told them the victim was Evelyn Villiers. They both said it was Briony Peacock from The Finchley Arms. They also said Briony saw Henry Liu pedaling toward the High Street at eight fifteen—not nine as he told you.”
“We heard that as well, although it may prove irrelevant. Witnesses are frequently wrong about time. In fact, when they all agree, we begin to worry.”
“I almost forgot. You were going to tell me how the intruders got into the shop without setting off the alarm.”
“Ever heard of key bumping?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“It’s a lock-picking technique favored by criminals because it leaves no signs of forced entry and does no damage to the lock. All you need is a specially cut key known as a bump key, where all the ridges