The Art of Betrayal

she decided to sell everything. What changed? Have you checked her bank accounts?”
“She had plenty of money but used little. No large sums incoming or outgoing.”
“What was vital enough to make a recluse leave her house? Why was it so important that she sell her husband’s art collection? I can’t help wondering if she’d heard from her daughter.”
“We’ve considered that.”
“A horrible thought—a mother, murdered by her own daughter.”
“Most murders happen within family systems, Kate.”
“But you said the break-in looked like a professional job.”
“Also true.” He closed the door to the small bedroom. “Every investigation presents conflicting evidence at first. In time a picture emerges.”
“At least my part will be easy.” I started down the stairs, leaving him on the landing.
His voice followed me. “You will tempt fate, won’t you?”
The sky had partially cleared, and the misty rain had let up—at least for the moment.
“Fancy a look at the river?” Tom peered out the kitchen bay window. “I see more stepping stones.”
He was right. A line of flat natural stones led from the side door, around the house, and over the lawn toward the Stour. “Someone’s been mowing the grass,” I said. “Although it’s in need of a trim.”
The lawn was bordered by perennial beds, long since gone to seed. Weeds grew up alongside the daffodils, bearded irises, and fringed bleeding hearts. Near the riverbank, a rock garden had been laid out with a central sundial. Whoever designed it hadn’t possessed a particularly artistic eye, but perhaps when the summer flowers bloomed, it would be more attractive. Had Evelyn Villiers been a gardener? She must have had some way of passing the time.
Along the bank sat a rustic wooden bench, silvered with age. A pleasant place to read, I thought, when the weather dried out. Willows, alders, and a silver-leafed tree I couldn’t identify cast deep green shade on the swiftly moving olivine water. Blackthorn and burdock mingled with other water plants to create a safe habitat for the creatures that depended on the river for life.
“Look,” Tom whispered. “A water vole.”
A small animal with dark brown fur, a blunt nose, and eyes like jet beads regarded us suspiciously from the long grass before darting away.
“Water’s high,” I said.
“There’s a lock about a mile south of here. The Stour was a means of transport in the past. Look, you can just see the old towpath on the opposite bank.”
“Reminds me of the play—the green maiden, drowned in the flood after trying to poison her husband. Justice meted out by God.”
“Or by men.”
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Are you saying there’s a historical basis for the story?”
“Some say the story was concocted in Victorian times to compete with the legend of the green children of Woolpit. But every Suffolk schoolchild knows that an eleventh-century chronicle mentions a farmer in Suffolk who found a green-skinned girl hiding in a hedgerow. A cautionary tale.” He grinned at me. “Beware of foreign women.”
“Well, don’t say you weren’t warned. But, really—was there such a woman?”
“What do you think?” Tom reached down and righted a tiny turtle, flailing on its back.
“I think legends are based on something, some seed of truth. Expanded and transformed, of course. Like the telephone game—do children play that in the UK?—the one where the original statement changes slightly each time it’s repeated so the end result bears little resemblance to the original.” A white swan with three fluffy gray cygnets floated past. “You never found any Grenfels in Evelyn Villiers’s background?”
“Not a one. Shiptons, Turners, Clarks. That’s all I remember. No Grenfels.
I shivered. “Let’s go in. I’m cold. And I’m dying for a look at the art collection.”

Chapter Thirteen
We left our muddy shoes in the brick-floored laundry area. “Is there time for me to make a start on the inventory?” I asked, rinsing my hands in the deep porcelain sink and drying them on the front of my jeans.
“I can’t stay much longer today, Kate. All hands on deck tonight.”
I frowned. “Oh no. Does that mean you can’t attend the cocktail party at the Hall? Lady Barbara has invited the owners of the auction house. I wanted you to meet them.”
“I’m sorry. I will check the database, though—see if there’s anything about the Oakleys you should know. Look, there’s time for a quick look-around now. You can come back later with one of the constables. We found Wallace Villiers’s inventory records in his library desk, complete with photos. Cliffe made copies for you and left them on the desk.”
When Tom opened the wide pocket doors to the dining room, I got the impression the ground floor rooms weren’t so much a time capsule as an abandoned warehouse. Dust sheets shrouded the furniture. Paintings had been removed from the walls, leaving darkened rectangles on the sage-green wallpaper. A large number of objects were crowded together on the dining table—more Meissen figural groups but also pieces that looked like Sèvres, K.P.M., Royal Crown Derby. Wallace Villiers had collected the best of the best.
“Did the police do this?” I asked, indicating several empty built-in cabinets.
“No—everything’s been left the way they found it.”
I picked up a French painted enamel salt cellar, probably early Limoges, and felt a flush of heat. My mouth went dry. Here I go.
I knew the sensation would pass, but my immediate reaction to fine objects was intense—and often embarrassing.
“Kate?” Tom looked concerned. “Need some air?”
“No, no.” I attempted a laugh. “I’m fine. Absolutely fine.” My standard response to everything from a hangnail to childbirth. I’m sure those words will be carved one day on my gravestone.
The drawing room was in a similar state. Dust sheets covered the upholstered sofas and armchairs. Paintings, thirty or more in all sizes, had been stacked against the walls. More objects, including more fine examples of Meissen china, had been gathered together on several mahogany cabinets. Except for traces of aluminum powder and large boot prints left by the crime scene team, the layer of dust appeared mostly undisturbed.
I stood in the center of the