Chapter Four #2
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 found The Book of Wonder first 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 staying at 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 found Debrett’s Peerage and 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 her gruffly, 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?”
“I saw her pack it myself.”
Clio felt goose bumps as he carried on talking. “Honestly, the whole thing was so bizarre. She took off without any warning
after our baby was born. The last time she saw him he was five months old, and he’s eighteen months now. Can you believe it?
One minute she was saying she was so looking forward to being a grandmother, the next, she does a disappearing act.”
“Can you describe the embroidery?”
“Not very big, maybe two-thirds the size of an A4 piece of paper, torn across the top. Tatty. Old.”
“Any idea where she got it from?”
“No. There was a horrible accusation from the family who live at the manor house that she stole it from them. I didn’t for
an instant believe it, because Mummy never broke the law. It’s unthinkable, and they had a nerve to even suggest it after
she cared for one of their relatives.”
Clearly, he still felt very angry about this. Clio asked, “Where do you think she got it from?”
“She’d been collecting scraps of fabric for years, from secondhand shops, jumble sales, and the like, because she did a lot of sewing.
She was into all that Women’s Institute sort of stuff.
Crafts and the like. Flower arranging for the church.
Her collection’s still here. You’re welcome to look at it if you’d like. ”
She followed him through the house to a room at the back, which was small but cheerfully furnished and decorated. A large
window overlooked a well-stocked garden that was settling into its autumn droop. A botanical print of a palm frond hung prominently
on the wall beside it.
“This is where Mummy spent her time whenever me and Daddy didn’t need her,” Simon said. Clio glanced at him to see if he detected
anything wrong with still calling his mother “Mummy” at his age or with the casual sexism he was displaying. Apparently not.
She was drawn to a circular table nestled in the window, piled with books.
“That’s Mummy’s booky-wooky table,” Simon said. “That’s what we called it.”
“Right,” Clio said. What a way to infantilize Eleanor Bruton’s interests.
Simon opened the lid of a wooden chest. “Here’s the box of rags.” Again, a casually derogatory description. Maybe Eleanor
Bruton had a better sense of humor about such things than I do, Clio thought. She hoped so.
Fabric swatches were folded neatly inside the chest, silks, linens, and cottons in all colors, some embroidered or trimmed
with lace. Clio carefully removed some of them. Simon stood over her for a few moments, then his phone rang. “I’ll leave you
to it,” he said, and stepped out to take the call.
Clio rummaged through everything in the chest, but there was nothing of interest. None of the fabric seemed particularly old
or special. She examined some of the books on the table. They were highbrow, and niche, histories of bookbinding and embroidery.
Again, she felt goose bumps, and she had just started to flick through one of them when Simon’s voice startled her.
“She was always reading,” he said, watching her from the doorway. “She belonged to a book club. They would meet here sometimes.”
“What kind of book club?”
“Fiction reading. Women’s books.”
Clio held up the book she was holding. “Did she ever talk about these books?”
He shook his head. “I think those are her old university books. She went to Cambridge. That’s where she met Daddy.”
Clio knew he was wrong. The book she was holding had a library sticker and bar code inside the front cover. Eleanor had borrowed
it from a library in Salisbury. Presumably, she was supposed to have returned it by now.
Simon’s phone rang again. He glanced at it. “Busy morning,” he said.
She took the hint. “I should leave you in peace,” she said. “Thanks so much for your time.”
Clio sat in her car for a few moments after leaving the Brutons’ house. If Eleanor Bruton had been educating herself about