Diana allowed herself to laugh. “Indeed. The timing of everything is terrible, so it’s all the more important that her first day is a good one, especially as I need to tell her that she and I are traveling to London tonight.”
Sarabeth reached out, took Diana’s hand, and squeezed it brieflybefore letting go. “Anya Brown may be valuable property, but she’s also just a pawn,ourpawn, and we’ve planned our moves.”
Yes, Diana thought. We have. But she never stopped worrying whether they’d thought enough moves ahead to avoid being checkmated by the Kats, because whoever foundThe Book of Wonderfirst would use it to become immensely more powerful, and to crush their opposition.
Clio
Every so often, over the summer, Clio had taken out the poem and read it again.
After discovering it, she’d left the island earlier than planned, finding enough cell reception to call for a boat to her get back to the mainland the next day. Family emergency, she’d lied. She’d stashed the poem and its envelope in a freezer bag, the closest thing to an evidence bag she could find, and brought them with her.
Once she was off the island, away from its isolation and the strangeness of its otherworldly atmosphere, she found she wasn’t sure what to do about the poem. At first, she felt determined to show it to her boss or to the Scottish police and insist that Eleanor’s death be reinvestigated, but her rational mind reasserted itself when she thought about how her colleagues might react. She was going to sound like a fool if she claimed it was evidence of anything on its own. And she couldn’t forget Lillian’s warning not to let anyone know what she was doing.
She also couldn’t prove who had written the poem or hidden it—the fact that it was carefully printed in block capitals would make handwriting analysis very difficult, even if she did manage to get a sample of Eleanor Bruton’s writing. And then there was the fact that she hadn’t the first clue how to interpret the poem. For all she knew it could be part of a prank, perhaps a game played by a family stayingat the cottage. Maybe an elaborate treasure hunt or an attempt to terrify a sibling.
She put off a decision all summer and threw herself back into work. Operation Platinum, a demanding investigation into a forged painting and an associated money-laundering ring, was helpfully all-consuming. She did a lot of overtime, some undercover work. She performed well, got some praise, got noticed. It helped to keep her grief at bay.
In September, two things happened.
First, there was a lull at work, and she started to think about Lillian and about the poem again. She did a bit of quiet digging and found an address for Eleanor Bruton’s family home.
Second, she was sent to Bristol to assist the Avon and Somerset Police on an inquiry. When she was looking at transport options for the journey, she realized that if she drove, it would be easy to take a quick detour to the Bruton house. It was too tempting to resist.
The sleepy village where Eleanor Bruton had lived looked picture perfect. Thatched cottages surrounded a duck pond overhung by a weeping willow, its fronds trailing in the water. To one side was the village green, with a pretty cricket pavilion and a well-worn pitch.
She followed the GPS down a narrow lane and parked at the end beside an ancient village church. The old graveyard encircling the church had beautiful views of the chalk hills around it.
The Old Vicarage was directly across the road from the church, a large house built from the same red brick as the cottages, probably Georgian, Clio thought. There was a sense of comfortable neglect. Roses rambled over the porch, just about still in flower, long, whippy stems tangled and in need of pruning.
Clio rang the bell. It chimed deep inside the house, and a dog barked. When the door opened a heavyset Labrador barreled out and greeted her as if they were old friends.
“Barney! Shush! Down!” The woman grabbed the dog by its collar and pulled it back into the house. She was in her early thirties, Clio guessed. They were of a similar age. The woman was slim and fit looking, with flushed cheeks and long, uncombed blond hair. She wore skinny jeans, Uggs, and a Breton top.
Clio flashed her badge. “I’m sorry I didn’t call ahead, but I was wondering if you have a few minutes to talk about Eleanor Bruton?” She spoke softly, conscious of the family’s loss, but the woman answered brusquely: “Oh, God. We thought all that was done with.”
“It’s just a couple of extra questions, nothing to be alarmed about.”
“Well, look, yes, of course, come in, I suppose. The baby’s just waking up, so do you mind waiting while I get Simon?”
In the sitting room at the front of the house a carriage clock ticked somberly on the mantel shelf. The décor was old-fashioned: hunting prints and dowdy landscapes in elaborate frames, some sepia-toned photographs of family members (she assumed), stiff in Victorian finery.
Clio examined the bookshelves. She foundDebrett’s Peerageand multiple biographies of male politicians and explorers. There was a collection of books relating to the Roman Empire. Clio was cautious about stereotyping—if there was one thing her job had taught her, it was that you shouldn’t—but the interests on display seemed very masculine.
Simon Bruton was a big man with doleful eyes, fleshy cheeks, and a prematurely thinning crown of fine, pale hair. He wore the country uniform of the well-to-do: checked shirt, corduroy trousers, and a vest.
“DC Clio Spicer,” she said. “From the Scotland Yard Art and Antiques Squad.” She showed him her badge and omitted to tell him that this wasn’t, strictly, official business.
“How can I help you?”
Clio offered her condolences for his loss, and he thanked hergruffly, showing a little more emotion than his wife. She asked, “Are you aware of whether your mother came into possession of a piece of embroidery before her death?”
“She did, and I wish I’d thrown the bloody thing in the bin when I had the chance. Mummy was obsessed with it. Why do you ask? Was it valuable?”
“I’m working on a case it might be relevant to, but I’m afraid I’m not allowed to share details. As to value, I’m not sure.”
“I wanted to get it valued, but Mummy ran off to Scotland and took it with her before I had a chance to. When they sent her things back after she died, it wasn’t there.”
“Are you sure she took it?”
