The Art of Betrayal

churchyard. He also claimed her descendants still lived in the area, though no one would tell him who they were. I believe I own a copy. Should be somewhere in the book room if you want to read more.”
“Thanks. I have to run. I’m working on the inventory at Hapthorn Lodge today.”
“Lucky girl. I’m off to physio for my daily torture session.”
PC Anne Weldon picked me up in a Vauxhall Astra police vehicle. I slid in beside her and clicked my seat belt. Anne’s honey-colored hair was pulled back into a neat bun, perfect for the round bowler hat worn by policewomen in the UK. She looked young enough to be my daughter.
“Good morning, Mrs. Hamilton,” she said cheerily, making me feel even more elderly.
“Please—call me Kate.”
“And I’m Anne.” She shifted the car into drive and stepped on the gas.
“Thanks for coming with me,” I said. “I’m sure there are lots more important things you could be doing.”
“Not really. I’ve only just joined the Force, so it’s usually traffic duty or desk work for me. DI Mallory asked me to make sure the house is secure before you start working. Then, if you don’t mind, may I leave you on your own for a bit? I won’t if you’d feel uncomfortable. It’s only my gran lives in Little Gosling. She took a tumble last week, and I’d like to look in on her.”
“Of course—go. It’s not as if I’m in any danger.”
We arrived at Hapthorn Lodge about a quarter after ten. PC Weldon unlocked the side door, which led to the kitchen through the old laundry with its original copper tub and elaborate wooden drying rack. The clean scent of laundry detergent came from a modern washer/dryer unit.
I plunked my handbag and briefcase with my laptop on the plastic laminate counter. “Before I get started, I’d like to run upstairs and get a book from Mrs. Villiers’s room. Did Detective Inspector Mallory mention it?”
“Yes—I forgot to say. You’re to let him know when you’ve finished with it.”
We climbed the back stairs.
The small bedroom overlooking the front drive felt airless and sad. I leaned across the iron bedframe to examine the photograph again. The cottage was thatched but not especially pretty. The trees were leafless—winter, then. In the background, a gray ribbon of water flowed diagonally. Beyond the opposite bank stretched wide hedgeless fields. I could see nothing to indicate a location, but the warm sepia tones told me the photo had been taken a long time ago.
This cottage had meant something to Evelyn Villiers. Had it been a family home, a much-loved grandmother’s cottage, a lovers’ retreat?
I opened the drawer of the bedside table, pulled out the slim Myths & Legends book, and tucked it under my arm.
“Sure you don’t mind if I leave you for a while?” Anne Weldon asked again on our way downstairs. “Knowing my gran, she’ll expect me to have a cup of tea and a piece of cake.”
“Take your time.”
Back in the kitchen, I slipped Evelyn Villiers’s book into my briefcase.
“I’ll leave off the lockbox,” Anne said, “but lock the door after me. Best to take precautions.”
Let me know when you get back,” I called after her. “I’m setting up in the library, so I may not hear the door.”
“Half one at the latest.” She gave me a cheery wave.
Once Anne had gone, I set to work. The job wouldn’t be difficult—just time consuming, matching the documentation in Wallace Villiers’s files with the actual objects scattered in no discernable order around the ground-floor rooms. I’d have to check every nook and cranny in the house, even the cellar, but I had no intention of tackling the house’s damp underpinnings alone. I’m not brave when it comes to spiders.
I plugged in my laptop and opened it on Wallace Villiers’s desk. Except for the faded Polaroids, his documentation was clear and precise—detailed descriptions, known provenance, date and place of acquisition, and original receipts with purchase price. I’d already set up an Excel spreadsheet with those same columns. I added a final column labeled “Sale price” to my spreadsheet in case I found any sales receipts.
Wallace Villiers had collected a wide variety of antiques, but he had favored eighteenth-century paintings, early Chinese pottery, and European porcelain—especially Meissen.
Forty minutes later I’d successfully matched up seventeen objects, recording them on the spreadsheet, tagging them or marking them with the corresponding numbers, and taking photos with my cell phone. The work was familiar to me. I kept similar records myself. Later, when I had internet access, I would embed links to the images in the file. Finally, I’d load everything on a thumb drive for the police.
Evelyn Villiers’s final word haunted me—Meissen. If you don’t know you’re going to die, your last words might be “Don’t forget to defrost the chops” or “Watch out for that bus.” But if you’ve been stabbed, your final words are significant.
So what had Evelyn Villiers tried to communicate when she said Meissen with her last breath? Wallace Villiers had been particularly fond of Meissen. He’d purchased a large number of wonderful old pieces, mostly figural groups from the eighteenth century. Had she tried to communicate the identity of her killer—or had she hidden an important clue in one of the Meissen pieces?
I was in the dining room, hunting for a large Sèvres sugarbox and cover, when I heard the chink of china in the kitchen.
“Anne—you’re back early.” I rolled my neck and stiff shoulders.
Silence.
“Anne?” I walked through into the entrance hall.
More silence.
Alert, I backed against the wall, mentally flipping through the possibilities. Had someone wandered inside? A vagrant looking for food? A burglar? I hadn’t heard a car drive up, and I’d locked the door from the inside. I’d have heard someone breaking in.
Should I hide? Run? I’d left my cell phone in the library. Crap.
Slipping off my shoes, I crept barefoot through the butler’s pantry and peered around the corner into the kitchen. A thin woman wearing dingy pink workout clothes stood frozen, one