The Art of Betrayal

to sell.”
“Oh my.” Lady Barbara raised a hand to her cheek. “Something must have happened.”
“How do you know she never leaves her house?” I asked. “Maybe she just never shops in Long Barston.”
Lady Barbara shook her head “You don’t understand.”
“Do you know Yasmin, the mail carrier?” Vivian asked.
“Of course.” Yasmin Green, the mother of two handsome, rough-and-tumble sons, was a lovely young woman of Afro-Caribbean descent who lived in Long Barston with her husband, Ralston, an ex-footballer for Ipswich Town, a huge hulk of a man known locally as the “gentle giant.”
“Yasmin’s mother-in-law, Ertha, used to do for the Villiers.” Vivian leaned forward, lowering her voice. “After the inquest, Evelyn locked herself in her room and refused to come out, even to eat. Ertha left trays outside her bedroom door. Then Ertha was dismissed—no notice, no explanation. Something snapped in the poor woman’s mind. Refused to have a funeral.”
“No funeral?”
“Cremation.” Vivian mouthed the word as if it were slightly off-color. “No ceremony of any sort.”
“What about her daughter?”
“Lucy.” Vivian shook her head. “Sad story there. Her mother blamed her for causing her father’s death. They say the girl had planned to run off with the family chauffeur. Broke her father’s heart. Literally. Keeled over on the spot.”
“Did they marry—Lucy and the young man?”
“We never heard,” Lady Barbara said. “Lucy was sent to live with an aunt somewhere in Essex. Best thing, all in all.”
Vivian stood, wrapping Fergus’s leash around her hand. “Come on, Barb. Time to try on our costumes.”
“Dress rehearsal?” I asked. All week Vivian had been hinting about her part in some sort of theatrical performance on the green.
“It’s a pageant,” Lady Barbara said. “‘The Green Maiden,’ a local folktale, acted out every May all over this part of Suffolk.” She threw me a cheerful look. “We’re peasants.”
“Begins at nine,” Vivian said. “You’ll attend, of course.”
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
Fergus grunted as he scrambled to his feet.
Vivian regarded her pet fondly. “I’ve entered the dear boy in two competitions this year—Most Handsome Dog and Waggiest Tail. He’s bound to win at least one blue ribbon.”
Lady Barbara tucked her handkerchief in the sleeve of her jacket. She blinked as the tent flap blew open, letting in the near-horizontal rays of the sun. Thanks to corneal dystrophy, a genetic eye condition common in the Finchley family, her vision was slowly dimming. She’d never go completely blind, I’d learned, but she would eventually lose her independence.
“Consider my suggestion,” I told her.
“I will, my dear. Thank you.”
Vivian took Lady Barbara’s arm. “Well, I think it’s a grand idea, selling a few bits and bobs. You could use that new auction house on the road to Sudbury. Keep things local.”
“Of course.” Lady Barbara’s face lit up. “We attended the grand opening about a month ago, Kate. It’s a perfect idea. That way the village would benefit.”
I remembered the disappointing return on Ivor’s items. Auctions are always a risk. I’d ask Tom to check out the owners of the auction house, make sure they were reputable.
As I watched them make their way toward the church, I thought about the oak-paneled walls of Finchley Hall, hung with portraits of long-dead Finchleys, gazing out in their velvet-and-ermine condescension. Fidelis, Fastu, Fortitudo—the Finchley motto.
Loyalty, Pride, Courage.
With Lady Barbara there was no false pride. The Finchleys hadn’t always been saints, but like her father and grandfather before her, Lady Barbara’s first consideration was always for the village families who had depended on the Hall for generations.
My phone vibrated. A text from Tom: On my way.
A tiny, joyful explosion went off in my heart.

Chapter Five
Watching Tom stride across the green, I marveled at life’s unexpected joys. Some women never meet the man of their dreams. I’d met two. First my husband, Bill, older by eleven years and the father of my children—easygoing, kind, safe. And now, almost four years after Bill’s tragic death, a completely different man—Tom Mallory, a widower my own age. He was kind, but I couldn’t honestly say he was easygoing and safe. There was an intensity about him, a fierce energy that intrigued and excited me. With his high cheekbones and aquiline nose, he looked like a monk; and yet when he gave me that charming half smile, when his hazel eyes crinkled at the corners, he took my breath away.
Our problem wasn’t attraction, but proximity.
I lived in Jackson Falls, Ohio. He lived in Suffolk, England.
“I’ve been looking forward to this all day.” Tom pulled me into his arms. “You look amazing.”
He looked amazing himself in a pair of jeans, a crisp white shirt, and a tobacco-colored sport jacket. He smelled amazing too—that faintly woodsy aftershave I would always associate with our first meeting in the Scottish Hebrides.
He pulled back to look at me. “Lovely dress, Kate. Matches your eyes.”
My coloring I’d inherited from my mother—dark chestnut hair, blue eyes—“blue as the waters of the fjords,” my father used to say.
Tom looked concerned. “Will you be warm enough?”
My calf-length sundress had a drop-shoulder Bardot neckline. One of my friend Charlotte’s picks (I’m hopelessly unfashionable). Fortunately, she’d insisted on pairing it with a cashmere cardigan, which I’d tied (unfashionably) around my waist.
“The sweater will do just fine. And I do have something warmer in the car, just in case.”
“Where did you park?”
“In back of the shop, but I’m fine now.” I threaded my hand through his arm. “I like the jacket. Looks like you stopped home after work.”
“To shower and change. After the day I’ve had, I needed it.”
“Tell me about it—if you can.” Tom worked in the Criminal Investigations Division of the Suffolk Constabulary. His team covered everything from fraud and burglary to rape and homicide. He was currently on a special assignment.
“It’s drugs, Kate.” We passed the White Elephant stall. “I wish I could say we’re making headway, but it wouldn’t be true. We arrest one dealer—they’re just kids, really—only to find ten more taking his place. The answer is to find and disrupt the county lines.”
“County lines?”
“A term for the drug trafficking routes from