The Art of Betrayal

Tom wouldn’t arrive for another hour, that’s where I headed, figuring I’d find Vivian.
I spotted her right away. She and Fergus, her ever-present pug, shared a table with the local peeress, Lady Barbara Finchley-fforde. Vivian, a well-upholstered single woman in her late seventies, wore her year-round uniform, a baggy tweed skirt and twinset. Lady Barbara—slim, elegant, and a decade younger—had chosen a shirtwaist dress in a lavender floral design, with a matching bouclé jacket.
Vivian was speaking, her hands slicing the air in aid of some point. Fergus lay in a puddle at her feet, panting softly. Lady Barbara’s silver-blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, emphasizing the hollows beneath her fine cheekbones. She appeared to be weeping.
As I approached the table, Fergus lifted his head and gave a friendly woof.
Wanting to give Lady Barbara time to compose herself, I reached down and patted Fergus on the head. “And how are you this fine evening, Fergus?” He wagged his corkscrew tail. I spotted a cake crumb caught in the fur near his mouth. “Enjoying the party, I see.”
Lady Barbara reached out her hand. “Kate, dear. I’d hoped to see you tonight.”
“Is something wrong?” I pulled up a chair. Lady Barbara, one of the bravest women I knew, wasn’t one to feel sorry for herself. Or exaggerate her troubles.
Vivian answered for her. “It’s the National Trust.” She finger-combed her gray pixie cut. “They’re pulling out. Leaving Barb in the lurch.”
“Now, Vivian, we don’t know that yet.”
“What do you mean ‘pulling out’?” I asked.
Vivian opened her mouth, but Lady Barbara laid a quelling hand on her arm. “They’re enthusiastic about Finchley Hall, Kate. They understand the historic significance of the house and have already talked about preserving what they call ‘the faded postwar ambiance.’ The problem is money. Funds are tight—a temporary state of affairs, they hope.”
Finchley Hall, the family seat of the Finchleys for nearly five centuries, was in remarkable shape for its age. In other words, it was slowly crumbling and would continue to crumble unless someone invested a fortune in repairs and renovation.
Lady Barbara’s smile was disconcertingly hopeful. “I understand about the money. Of course I do. The National Trust cares for so many wonderful properties. There is a limit to what they can take on, but what will I do if they delay too long—or worse, turn Finchley Hall down altogether? My father would turn over in his grave if I sold the estate to some developer who would bulldoze everything to build a housing estate. I couldn’t do that.”
“Of course not.” I could see her dilemma. The upkeep on Lady Barbara’s increasingly derelict Elizabethan manor house (not to speak of the outbuildings) had to be mind-boggling. After the Second World War, when many of England’s stately homes were demolished, victims of the struggling postwar economy, crippling taxes, and a changing social structure, Finchley Hall had been granted a reprieve when Lady Barbara married the scion of a wealthy Welsh mining family. When his fortune reached its dregs, he had attempted to offset mounting expenses by hosting university interns—at a fee.
I knew the sad history because my daughter had been part of the final group of interns. But after the shocking murders last December, the internship program had been abandoned, and Lady Barbara, the last of the Finchley-ffordes, had been forced to face her dire financial condition. Her only remaining source of income was the Finchley Hoard, a treasure trove unearthed on the estate in 1818. But she’d promised her father she would never sell the Hoard, and she’d kept that promise by gifting it to a local history museum. At the same time, she’d made the agonizing decision to transfer ownership of her ancestral home to the National Trust—with two provisions. The first would allow her to occupy a private wing of the house as long as she was able to live independently. The second would grant her previous employee and best friend, Vivian Bunn, life tenancy in Rose Cottage, the thatched-roof jewel box that was now my temporary home.
“When will the National Trust make their decision?” I asked.
“They’ve promised to contact my lawyer by the end of the month.”
“And that will be final?”
“Who knows?” Vivian huffed. “They implied funds may be available at some unspecified later date. Load of good that will do.” She snorted and popped the remains of a clotted cream–slathered scone into her mouth.
“Viv’s right.” Lady Barbara pushed an iced fairy cake around her plate with a fork. “But where does that leave me?”
“Could you sell something? To tide you over, I mean.”
Two sets of elderly eyes stared at me as if I’d uttered an oracle.
“Like what?” asked Lady Barbara.
“I don’t know. Something you don’t need. Something that won’t be missed when Finchley Hall is open to the public. How about the attic? You must have some valuable things up there.”
“You mean you’d sell them for me at the shop?”
“We could, but you might not realize a profit for months—even years. I suggest putting a few items up for auction. That way you’d get the money right away.”
“Let me consider it, dear. I’ll let you know.”
A stout woman in a frilly apron plopped a teacup in front of me, took my prepaid ticket, and poured out from an enormous metal pot. “Milk and sugar on the table,” she said. “Biscuits and cakes at the counter.”
I thanked her and turned back to my companions. “Do either of you know a woman named Evelyn Villiers? She lives in Little Gosling.”
“Why do you ask?” Vivian tilted her head. So did Fergus, at her feet. The resemblance between mistress and dog was remarkable.
“She came into the shop this morning.”
“She came to the shop?” Vivian shot Lady Barbara a look.
“You saw her?” Lady Barbara’s brow furrowed.
“Yes. Why?”
“Because Evelyn Villiers hasn’t been seen in public for years.”
“Years and years,” Vivian added. “She’s a recluse. Never leaves her house. Not since her husband died.”
“Well, she left her house yesterday. She brought in an ancient Chinese funereal jar she wants Ivor