A Collection of Lies

Book 5: A Kate Hamilton Mystery

by Connie Berry

Genres: Mystery; Amateur Sleuth; International Crime & Mystery; Female Sleuths; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

In USA Today bestselling author Connie Berry’s fifth Kate Hamilton mystery, American antiques dealer Kate Hamilton follows bloodstained clues to discover the truth about the murder of a modern-day Victorian gentleman.

As Kate Hamilton and her new husband, DI Tom Mallory, honeymoon in Devon, a local history museum asks them to trace the provenance of a bloodstained dress said to belong to a Victorian lacemaker accused of murder. If genuine, the dress and its puzzling connections to a nineteenth-century Romani family who camped on Dartmoor will be the centerpiece of a new historic crimes exhibit—exactly Kate’s kind of mystery. But matters turn deadly when a shot is fired during a fundraising gala, injuring the man who donated the dress.

The injured donor, Gideon Littlejohn, is a cybersecurity expert who lives and dresses as a Victorian gentleman, but everyone believes the real target of the attack to be another attendee—a controversial politician intent on rooting out local corruption. This belief is overturned when Gideon is found dead in a pool of blood. But then the politician receives a death threat.

Who was the real target? Who would want to kill both a man with an obsession for history and a tough-on-crime politician? When asked to assist in the investigation, Kate races to discover the truth, as it becomes clear the killer isn’t going to come quietly.

Release date: June 18, 2024

Publisher: Crooked Lane Books

Print pages: 336

Sample

Chapter One

Thursday, January 2
The Old Bell Inn, Devon, England

“Murderers can be perfectly ordinary people.” Tom was stretched out atop the duvet, bare chested and wearing his navy sweatpants. He looked at me over his reading glasses. “I’m serious, Kate. They’re often people you’d never suspect. Small irritations build up, and then one day they just snap. I once arrested a pensioner for stabbing her neighbor to death with a garden trowel because she was sure some of the weed killer he was spraying had drifted onto her prize roses.”

I started to laugh, and my coffee went down the wrong way.

“That’s not funny.” He looked slightly hurt.

I thumped my chest, trying to breathe. “I’m sorry, but do you think all newlyweds chat about murder on their honeymoon?”

To be fair, the topic was hardly surprising. Tom was a detective inspector in the Suffolk Constabulary. But I was an antiques dealer and appraiser. Not a particularly treacherous profession.

“I was leading up to something.” Tom reached over and placed his mug of coffee on the bedside table. He picked up a blue folder. “We’ll be on Dartmoor tomorrow. It’s time to think about our investigation. Listen to this: ‘Of all the crimes in Devon’s history, the most mysterious may be the case of Nancy Thorne, a thirty-year-old lacemaker from the lost Dartmoor village of Widdecombe Throop.’”

“Wait a minute,” I interrupted him. “What do you mean by ‘lost village’? How can an entire village be lost?”

“Lots of reasons. Climate change, for one. Settlements that thrived during the Medieval Warm Period were abandoned as the climate cooled. And during World War II, there were villages that—”

I gave him a playful shove. “In other words, you don’t know. Keep reading.”

Tom grinned at me. “‘At one AM on the night of seventh September 1885, Nancy returned to the cottage she shared with her sister, a seamstress, in a state of incoherence. Her hair was disheveled. Her dress was torn and soaked with what appeared to be blood. For reasons never explained, neither the village doctor nor the local constable was called.’”

“This happened in 1885?” I propped myself on one elbow. “When was the piece written?”

“Nineteen forty-two. It’s the script of a radio documentary on crimes in Devon.”

“Hardly an eyewitness account, then. Go on.” I kissed his shoulder.

“‘Witnesses testified that Nancy arrived as usual for the six o’clock service at the village church but left soon afterwards. The vicar, Edward Quick, assumed she had been taken ill. Later, concerned for Nancy’s well-being, he called at the cottage, where her sister, Sally, told him Nancy had not returned home. She wasn’t concerned, however, as Nancy often stopped after evening service to visit a friend, a local widow who’d been housebound. The widow, when questioned later, said she had indeed been home but had not seen Nancy Thorne in several days. When Nancy finally did appear, she claimed to have no memory of the events of that night and could offer no explanation for the blood on her frock. The police launched an investigation, but as no person in the surrounding area had gone missing and no body, human or animal, was ever discovered, the case was closed. Nancy died at the age of forty-six without ever speaking of the events that occurred that night.’” Tom closed the folder. “Well, that’s the case.”

“Please don’t tell me we’re expected to solve a hundred-and-forty-year-old murder.”

“No.”

“Well, then, what does Grahame Nash expect us to do?”

Nash, Tom’s friend from his early days in the Suffolk Constabulary, ran an international private investigations firm based in Toronto. He’d been trying for at least a year to convince Tom to take early retirement from the police force and join his firm—an idea that appealed to me no end. When I weighed the dangers of discreet private investigations against drugs, domestic violence, organized crime, and terrorism, there was no contest. I had a new

husband, and I didn’t want to lose him.

Tom laid the folder on his chest. “If we take the case, our task will be—” He broke off. “No, best to hear it directly from the horse’s mouth.” He opened the folder again and pulled out a sheet of letterhead bearing the logo of Nash & Holmes, Private Investigations. “I received this from Grahame a few weeks before our wedding,” he said, and proceeded to read the letter in its entirety.

November 29

Dear Tom,

My hearty congratulations on your forthcoming marriage. If Kate has captured your heart, she must be a very special lady indeed. I look forward to meeting her. Sadly, I will not be able to attend the wedding ceremony. On that particular day I will be traveling in one of the countries currently in the crosshairs of the former Soviet Union.

There’s no need to tell you I’m delighted you have decided to give the case in Devon some thought. As you know, this is not a criminal matter. Here’s a quick overview:

The Museum of Devon Life, a small but highly regarded institution led by Dr. Hugo Hawksworthy, formerly of the Mary Rose Museum in Portsmouth, has received a sizeable grant for a new exhibit to be called ‘Famous Crimes in Devon’s History.’ You can imagine the sort of thing—reconstructions, photos where possible, perhaps a skull or two thrown in to attract the kiddies. Construction of a new wing is currently underway, with a grand opening scheduled for spring. The proposed centerpiece for the new exhibit is a dress said to have belonged to a Victorian lacemaker from a village in Dartmoor. I trust you’ve read the enclosed file. The dress, along with a collection of items found with it, has been donated to the museum by a colorful gentleman named Gideon Littlejohn. Perhaps you’ve heard of him. If not, Hawksworthy can fill you in. At any rate, your assignment will be to establish, if possible, the provenance of the dress. Did it really belong to the lacemaker in question? Are the stains on the dress human blood? Can we identify the blood type or retrieve any DNA material?

I know you’ve made no long-term commitments, but I believe this case will be of interest to Kate as well. With her experience in the antiques trade, she may be able to provide valuable help. I’m more than happy to put her on the payroll. As I told you earlier, while our monthly stipend is nothing to write home about, we do pay all expenses—generously, if I say so myself. The real money comes from commissions on investigations resolved to the client’s satisfaction. And that, my dear chap, is what you do best. If you have questions, get in touch. If I’m out of the country, Ellie, my PA, will know how to reach me.

I remain, as always, your friend,

Grahame Nash.

Tom looked at me over his glasses. “What do you think?”

“Interesting,” I said in an offhand way, trying to hide a smile. I was fascinated, and Tom knew it. “Sounds a lot safer than policing.”

“Hmm, yes.” He lay back and put an arm under his head. “Leaving the force is a major decision. Our lives would change.”

“We’ve already made one life-changing decision—spending the rest of our lives together. That’s turned out pretty well so far.”

“So far?” He gave me a cheeky smile. “Jury still out, then?”

“The real test will be when we get home. Figuring out who cooks and who does the dishes, seeing who squeezes the toothpaste tube from the middle—that sort of thing.” I glanced around our suite. “This isn’t exactly real life.”

“The Old Bell?” Tom frowned. “If I remember correctly, you called it ‘nothing in the middle of nowhere.’”

“I meant it as a compliment.”

“I know you did.” He reached over and touched my cheek.

The Old Bell, a former coaching inn near Okehampton, was perched on a rise overlooking a wild, rushing stream. No fancy spa. No gourmet restaurant with tiny portions artistically presented. No signature cocktails. Just comfortable beds, excellent cooking, gorgeous surroundings … and privacy. Every night we’d fallen asleep to the hoot of an owl. Every morning we’d awakened to the clear winter sun gilding the thick stone walls of our suite. Frankly, I was getting a bit restless.

I needed a challenge, and a bloodstained Victorian dress sounded right up my alley.

A discreet knock on the door sent me scrambling for my cashmere robe—a wedding gift from my friend Lady Barbara Finchley-fforde.

“Coming.” I pulled the soft fabric around my body and tied the sash.

“Breakfast, madam,” came a voice from the hallway. “I’ll leave it outside, shall I?”

“No, no.” I opened the door. “Come in.”

A middle-aged woman in a black skirt and white apron entered, balancing a large tray. “We don’t like to disturb our honeymoon couples.”

“It’s no problem.”

“I can see that.” She raised an eyebrow, probably assuming our matching black eyes and the gash on Tom’s forehead—souvenirs from an encounter with a drugs dealer just before our wedding—were the result of a domestic dispute. Placing the tray on a table, she started to leave, then turned back. “Always best to talk things out, my luvs.”

We waited until the sound of her footsteps died away, then collapsed into laughter.

An hour later, the coffee cold and our plates nearly empty, we were still in bed.

I was studying the ancient oak beams holding up the ceiling.

“Thinking about Nancy Thorne’s dress?” Tom asked.

“Actually, I was thinking about historical mysteries in general. Uncovering the past. Everyone involved is long gone. No crime, no danger.”

I never learn.

Tom tossed the blue folder on the bedside table. “This is our last day at the Old Bell. How shall we spend it?”

We’d been married exactly eight days. Due to an administrative delay—something to do

with retirement dates and pensions—Tom’s boss, DCI Dennis Eccles, wouldn’t be taking up his new post at the Suffolk Constabulary headquarters until February 1. Which meant Tom wouldn’t become the new detective chief inspector at Bury St. Edmunds until then either, and since he’d accumulated more than a month of vacation time, we’d planned to spend the first three weeks of our honeymoon in Devon and the rest of January settling into our new home in Long Barston.

“The weather’s supposed to be lovely,” I said. “Sunny. Not too cold. Why don’t we do that guided-trek thing on the moor today? It may be our last chance.”

“We should think about making a move.”

“I suppose so.” I looked over at Tom’s profile, the straight nose, the angles of his cheekbones, the slight scar near his ear. Life, miraculously, had given me a second chance at love. A whole new life with this charming, gifted, gorgeous, irresistible—

“Come on, then.” He started to get up.

I pulled him back down. “Oh, not yet.”

 

Chapter Two

Friday, January 3
Coombe Mallet, Devon

Late the next morning, Tom and I checked out of the Old Bell, stowed our gear in the rear of our Range Rover Discovery, and headed south toward the Museum of Devon Life, fifteen miles or so from the southeastern edge of Dartmoor.

The day had dawned cold and clear with a bright winter’s sun. I felt a pleasant sense of anticipation. We had a one o’clock meeting with the museum director, Hugo Hawksworthy, and his newly hired textile conservator, Julia Kelly. I’d dealt with antique textiles before—mostly fine tapestries, exquisitely embroidered Chinese panels, and a sampling of girlhood embroidery—but nothing involved in a murder. Now we were about to see a dress that might have belonged to a murderous Victorian lacemaker. To say I was intrigued would be an understatement.

As we entered Dartmoor National Park, our car climbed through old oak forests and hidden valleys to windswept moors punctuated by weathered granite cairns, spiky evergreen gorse, and fernlike bracken in its winter colors of amber and treacle. Scattered sheep grazed near the craggy outcroppings. A few sturdy Dartmoor ponies with their long-flowing manes and tails eyed us with mild interest.

We’d spent the previous afternoon walking on the moor, led by one of the Dartmoor Rangers who offered guided treks to supplement his income. Having grown up on one of the farms dotting the national park, he knew every rock and tuft of bracken by heart.

As we walked, our guide had kept up a running commentary. The bleak, nearly treeless moor had once been a vast forest, first cleared by humans in the Bronze Age. Many of the old stone fences dated from early medieval times, some even earlier. “The moor is a rare and irreplaceable ecosystem,” he’d told us. “Abundant rainfall creates mires and wetlands. The soil is covered by a layer of peat that soaks up the rain, spreading and deepening with the decomposition of the vegetation.”

“You mean bogs,” Tom said, clearly interested. “Tell us about them.”

“Two main types. Blanket bogs are found on the high moor, where the moss-covered peat forms what some describe as a giant sponge, absorbing and capturing the rainfall. Basin mires form in the valley bottoms. They’re called ‘featherbeds’ or ‘quakers,’ because when you walk over them, they feel like a huge, wobbling jelly.”

“Can they really pull you under?” I shuddered, picturing Arthur Conan Doyle’s Grimpen Mire.

“Fiction—mostly.” The guide squinted against the sun. “Just don’t go wandering off on your own.”

No worries there.

A fine rain spattered the windscreen, blurring our view. Tom flipped on the wipers.

Our route to the market town of Coombe Mallet joined a ribbon of paved road bisecting Dartmoor from Tavistock in the west to Ashburton in the east. In the distance, we could just make out Dartmoor Prison, the stark, mist-shrouded Victorian structure where, in the past, the most notorious of England’s criminals had been incarcerated. Very likely, some of the criminals to be featured in the museum’s new exhibit had languished within the prison’s lichen-covered walls.

“Do you think we’ll see the bloodstained dress today?” I asked.

“I hope so. We’ll get the mini-tour this afternoon. Tonight they’re holding a gala fundraiser at the museum. We’re invited.” I must have rolled my eyes, because he added, “I know—not my favorite thing either. But we might learn more about the new exhibit.”

“Like who’s funding it?”

“Oh, I know who’s funding the exhibit.” Tom downshifted on the steep decline. “Uncle Nigel.”

“You’re kidding. To tempt you into leaving the police?”

“Nothing to do with me. Nigel supports lots of local endeavors—the lace museum in Honiton, the Devon Wildlife Trust, Salvation Army, Age Concern, several children’s charities.”

We rounded a sharp turn

and entered the village of Coombe Mallet. A sign pointed us to the museum with its pay-and-display car park.

“What are we hoping to learn at the gala?”

“A bit more about the man who donated the items, I hope—the one Grahame Nash described as ‘colorful.’ He’s our starting point.”

“Colorful how?”

“Good question. I spoke with Grahame just before our wedding. He described Littlejohn as eccentric, but when I asked how, he just laughed and said, ‘You’ll see.’”

Now I really was intrigued.

---

The museum occupied a four-story former woolen mill, constructed of gray stone rubble with redbrick dressings and a half-hipped slate roof. The mill had been—we learned later—one of the last in Devon, built in the early nineteenth century near Dartmeet, where the east and west branches of the River Dart converge. After the mill closure, the building was used as a storehouse. In the 1990s, the site was purchased by the museum.

A sign pointed us to the entrance. Construction of the new wing, a wooden structure, appeared to be well underway. A set of large, plate-glass doors led into the reception area with its information desk and ticket counter.

The director, Hugo Hawksworthy, was waiting for us. “Mr. and Mrs. Mallory—welcome to Coombe Mallet.”

“Call me Tom, please. And my wife uses her professional name—Kate Hamilton.”

“My apologies.” Dr. Hawksworthy was an attractive man, somewhere in his late forties or early fifties—athletically built, clean shaven with a thick brush of brown hair, lightly tanned skin, and unusual light hazel eyes. His clothes were expensive and meant to be noticed—tweed jacket over a cashmere quarter-zip and immaculate wool trousers. “You’re here to authenticate the Nancy Thorne dress. Shall we make a start? Ms. Kelly is working on the garment now.”

Tom gave me a surreptitious thumbs-up.

We followed Hawksworthy from the reception area, through a central atrium that served as the museum shop, to a forged-iron staircase with a balustrade in a neo-Gothic design. On the first floor—what Americans would call the second story—a series of rooms were arranged in a circular pattern around the atrium, which was open to a high glass dome on the roof. Metal railings in the same neo-Gothic design circled all three upper floors.

Hawksworthy noticed my interest. “It was an innovative design for its time. Open-air skylights have been used since Roman times, but it wasn’t until the Industrial Revolution that glazing became affordable to anyone but royalty. Since gas lighting didn’t reach this part of Devon until the end of the nineteenth century, the architect created a source of natural light and ventilation in the center of the building. The design also gave the mill foreman a bird’s-eye view of all the floors at the same time.”

We walked past several rooms, each showcasing a particular aspect of Devon life. A free-standing sign reading Gypsies, Romanies & Travellers pointed us toward a large, open space. That surprised me. Wasn’t the term Gypsy and

 its implications of illegality and irregularity considered offensive? I made a note to ask Dr. Hawksworthy privately. Further on, I caught a glimpse of another room featuring the lacemaking industry in Devon. That might prove helpful. Nancy Thorne had been a lacemaker.

Hawksworthy opened a set of double doors, and we entered a large workroom dominated by a table covered with sheeting. A dress printed in a small tobacco-and-white-sprig pattern lay spread out and covered with fine netting. From what I could see, the dress had a high neckline with a white collar, long sleeves cut short on the forearm, and a full-length gathered skirt.

A young woman was bent over the table. She straightened, brushing back a fringe of dark-auburn hair. “Hello, welcome. You must be the Mallorys.”

Tom started to correct her, but I touched his arm. Professionally, I was still Kate Hamilton, but Mallory was a name I was more than happy to claim.

“Tom, Kate—may I call you that? This is Julia Kelly, our textile conservator.” Dr. Hawksworthy smiled expansively. “She’s been with us just over a month. In addition to the crimes exhibit, part of the new wing will be dedicated to a collection of historic costumes. If we get the funding, of course.”

Julia Kelly was an attractive woman in her early thirties with a shaggy pixie-cut hairstyle and a slim, almost boyish figure. “Have you always been interested in antique textiles?” I asked her.

“At uni, I started out in theater costuming.” She smoothed a hand over the fine netting. “We were doing As You Like It with a medieval theme, so I spent a month studying design in Copenhagen. The National Museum there has a wonderful collection of fifteenth-century garments.” She shrugged. “I was hooked. After getting my degree, I was an intern with the Historic Royal Palaces—an amazing experience—but when Hugo offered me a position here, I couldn’t turn it down. It’s a wonderful opportunity to be in on a project from the ground up. Under Hugo’s leadership, the museum is getting lots of positive press coverage.”

Hawksworthy made a small, dismissive gesture, but I could tell he was pleased. “We’ve all worked very hard. To follow the Devon crimes exhibit with a collection of historical costumes and textiles should boost our standing nationally.”

Tom leaned over the table to peer at the dress. “Can you explain what you’re doing?”

“Certainly.” Julia beamed. “Each garment I work with is unique, fragile, and irreplaceable. The initial step is an overall assessment of condition, followed by the gentle removal of surface impurities—dust, lint, that sort of thing. I’m using a regular canister vacuum on the lowest setting. Not all conservators agree, but I like to protect fragile textiles with netting. Then I gently vacuum the garment in sections. The next step will be to make decisions about any stains, tears, insect infestation, mildew. Damage is usually stabilized rather than repaired. Stain removal depends upon several factors. Those decisions come later.”

“Based on what?” I asked.

“Conservation of textiles is always subjective. The significance of folds, stains, tears, and soil is evaluated in light of what we refer to as the textile’s ‘true nature,’ meaning its history and context. Stain removal is an irreversible process. If this dress belonged to Nancy Thorne, the stains and areas of repair will be historically important.”

“Yes, I see that,” I said. “Part of the story.” And a sensational draw. A bloodstained dress owned

by a possible murderess? Grisly but irresistible. I looked more closely at the fabric under the netting. “Is it cotton?”

“Calico. A plain-woven textile, coarser than muslin, made from unbleached cotton—often not fully processed. See here?” She pulled back a section of the netting and pointed out small irregularities in the weave. “These are actually parts of the husk. This particular fabric was machine printed in an overall sprig pattern. Typical of the period. Unremarkable—except for the stains, of course.”

Julia rolled back another section of netting, exposing most of the skirt.

My breath caught. The front of the skirt was discolored by large swaths of what looked very much like old bloodstains. A rip in the fabric near the hem had been almost invisibly repaired by someone. I moved closer to examine the damage.

“The repair was done sometime in the past,” Julia said. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it? Why would such a dress have been preserved?”

“Yes, and by whom?”

Leaning farther over the table, Julia uncovered the narrow bodice. More bloodstains.

She turned back the front button placket so I could view the construction. “The dress was made entirely by hand, a very fine hand. I’m told Nancy Thorne’s sister was a seamstress.”

“I believe so,” I mumbled, unable to tear my eyes away from the bloodstains. So much blood.

Julia ran her finger over an impossibly fine seam. “I’ve seen this level of workmanship in French couture garments created around the turn of the twentieth century. Unusual, I should think, in a remote village.”

“Very unusual.” My pulse quickened. My fingertips tingled. I bent closer.

What had appeared under the net to be an ordinary white collar was actually made of intricately patterned lace, a dense botanical design of flowers and leaves, woven of threads as fine as spider webs. Without thinking, I reached out to touch the lace, my fingers lightly brushing the intricate motifs. “I’m sorry,” I said, realizing I should have asked permission. “I’m not wearing gloves. I just—”

“It’s all right,” Julia said, smiling.

As my fingers hovered over the old fabric, I felt a pulsing of heat or energy. Was it coming from the blood?

“I, ah …” I stopped to swallow as I pulled my hand away, tucking it under the opposite arm. “It’s just I’ve never seen lace like this. It’s exquisite.” My brain was thrumming. My cheeks had gone hot, and my mouth was dry. Yes—my normal reaction to objects of great age and beauty. But this was an ordinary dress—finely made, yes, but not even that old by British standards. Why was I reacting this way?

I watched, horrified, as the dark stains seemed to spread and quiver before my eyes. I caught the metallic scent of … blood? But surely that was impossible.

“The dress was washed,” Julia said. “Someone tried to save it.” She pulled the netting back over the bodice.

An image flashed in my brain. A woman, on her knees. Sobbing inconsolably.

Blood. So much blood.

I took in a breath, louder than I’d intended. The image fled.

“Kate?” Tom was looking

at me, concerned.

“It’s nothing. I’m just feeling a little … strange.”

“Glass of water?” Hawksworthy asked.

“Yes, please. I’m a bit light-headed.” The wave of heat, the pounding of my heart, was beginning to subside.

“We have bottles of water in our staff kitchen. Be right back.” Hawksworthy rushed off. He probably assumed I was overly squeamish. Or pregnant.

That struck me as funny, which helped.

I smiled at Julia, feeling embarrassed. “Tell me about the lace.”

“Each part of England produced its own particular patterns and styles,” she said. “The lace made in this area, Honiton lace, is a bobbin lace created with small, individual motifs, such as a single leaf or flower. The elements are then joined using plaits. The overall designs can be extremely complex—so complex it would have taken a worker from eight to ten hours to make just one square inch. Can you imagine?”

I shook my head. “It must have been unusual for a dress like this one—an everyday dress, I mean—to have such an elaborate lace collar. If the dress was Nancy Thorne’s, would she have made the lace herself?”

“Another mystery. I can’t imagine she’d have had time to make something for personal use. One lacemaker near Honiton wrote in her journal that she’d stayed up all night finishing a job so her children could have breakfast.”

Dr. Hawksworthy returned with a bottle of water. I thanked him, screwed off the top, and took a drink.

“I understand it was a local man named Gideon Littlejohn who found the dress,” Tom said. “What can you tell us about him?”

“An interesting character, to say the least,” Hawksworthy said. “Unfortunately, my assistant just informed me that a potential donor is expecting a return call. We don’t like to keep them waiting.” He grinned. “Let’s table the question of Mr. Littlejohn until after you’ve met him.”

“Of course.” Tom shot me a look.

First Grahame Nash. Now Hugo Hawksworthy. What was the mystery surrounding Gideon Littlejohn, and why was everyone so reluctant to tell us about him?

We thanked Julia and followed Hawksworthy back through the displays toward the stairs.

“I hate to cut this short,” Hawksworthy said, “but you’ll have plenty of time to examine the dress later—and a collection of items found with the dress. They may help you trace the origins. If authentic, the dress will be displayed, bloodstains and all, on a mannequin as visitors enter the exhibit.”

“Very dramatic,” Tom said.

“We hope so,” Hawksworthy said. “Ironic, really, because with an exhibit called Famous Crimes in Devon’s History, you’d think the area was a hotbed of villainy. The truth is, out here in the villages, we haven’t had a serious crime in year."

Chapter Three

After leaving the museum, Tom and I checked into the Crown, a stunning fifteenth-century thatched inn in the center of the small market town of Coombe Mallet. We’d booked in for a week, courtesy of Nash & Holmes. After that, assuming we completed our investigation, we hoped to spend a week at Fouroaks, the country estate that had been in Tom’s family for generations. As Tom’s uncle Nigel was currently aboard the Eurostar, speeding his way toward his villa in the south of France, we’d have Fouroaks to ourselves. I was sorry not to have more time with Nigel. He was an old charmer, in the nicest possible way. But I was looking forward to exploring Fouroaks with Tom. He’d spent his summers there as a boy. The house, the grounds, and the nearby villages held so many fond memories for him. I wanted to share them.

After settling into our large and old-fashioned but comfortable room at the Crown, we spent an hour or so exploring Coombe Mallet. The small town, built on land rising from the River Dart, had a lovely old church, the remains of a motte-and-bailey castle, a winding High Street lined with shops, and a sixteenth-century guild hall built on the remains of a medieval priory.

As we walked, Tom said, “I wonder if either of the Thorne sisters married and had children. The dress may have been passed down from mother to daughter to granddaughter.”

“Oh, that would be way too easy.” I took his arm.

“All right, let’s hear your questions. I know you have some.”

“Okay, here’s one—why didn’t Nancy’s sister go to church that night?” I raised an eyebrow. “Here’s another—was Nancy ever examined by a doctor? The blood could have been her own.”

“Excellent questions. Which we’ll do our best to answer.”

“This case is going to take a lot of research. ...