Malice in Miniature (22 page)

I did tell Alan about my unfruitful day at the Hall, though. He tried to be comforting.

“Now you know what ordinary police work is like, love. Day after day of slogging routine, questioning everyone, learning absolutely nothing.”

“And, incidentally, making enemies. Mrs. Butler thinks I'm the world's worst nuisance, and I imagine Mrs. Hawes will lock up the spoons the next time she sees me coming.”

“That comes with the territory, as well. Darling, things are going quite smoothly here, and I may be able to get home a day early, on Friday afternoon. Would that disrupt your schedule?”

I told my husband what I thought of the idea of seeing him a day—and a night—sooner, and one way and another, we took quite a long time to say good-bye.

T
HAT NIGHT MY
subconscious lived up to its reputation. Maybe it needs to be happy to function. At any rate, I awoke in the chill gray morning with a brilliant idea.

“The miniatures!” I said to a surprised pair of cats, who viewed me with deep suspicion. The missing miniatures. What if they really had been stolen, and by Mrs. Lathrop? I knew nothing about her, really, except the sketchy background Jane had given me. Her son moved in very shady circles in London. What if Mum had decided she needed some extra money, either to support the appalling Claude or for purposes of her own? She had a few possessions that someone in her position wouldn't normally be expected to have; she must have had money from some unknown, and very possibly illicit, source. It would have been easy for her to steal the miniatures, and Claude could have fenced them for her, probably for only a small fraction of their real value, but that was the usual disadvantage of theft as a source of income.

Then who had murdered her, and why? I poured a second cup of coffee and considered that problem.

Mr. Thoreston. I had forgotten about Mr. Thoreston as soon as it had been established that he could not have killed Claude. Now. Suppose that somehow Mrs. Lathrop had found out about the irregularities in the Museum's books. Never mind how. A dedicated snoop can find out anything, given the desire and the opportunity. The housekeeper certainly had the opportunity, and maybe some peculiar behavior on Thoreston's part had given her the desire. Anyway, assume she got the goods on him. As I saw it, she might have had two possible reactions. One, a proposal that the two of them, thieves both, might work together for bigger and better gains.

Or, two, righteous indignation and a threat to tell Sir Mordred and the authorities immediately.

On the whole, I thought the latter more probable. I couldn't see Mrs. Lathrop putting herself in someone else's power, as she would have done if she had told Thoreston that she, too, was robbing Sir Mordred. Nor had I seen any evidence of a sense of humor that would have reveled in the coincidence of two thieves in the same ultrarespectable establishment. No, I thought she would have climbed on her high horse and told Thoreston the jig was up. And he, of course—

My train of thought came to a screeching halt and nearly jumped the track. Alan and I had already been over this ground once, hadn't we? And I had quite firmly decided that Thoreston wouldn't have committed that particular murder, involving careful planning and a knowledge of plants. It further involved a period of waiting, until Mrs. Lathrop felt ill and needed her herbal tea, and how could Thoreston have known when that might be? He couldn't afford to wait; Mrs. Lathrop might spill the beans at any time.

I got back to my original thought that Mrs. Lathrop had stolen the miniatures. The Thoreston theory made those thefts basically irrelevant, and surely they couldn't be. That would make entirely too many different kinds of crime going on in one place, and although I could believe almost anything of a nightmare house like Brocklesby Hall, I couldn't believe in embezzlement and theft and murder, all unconnected.

Very well, then. Lathrop had taken the miniatures. Suppose Thoreston had discovered her, instead of the other way around. Again, I wasn't sure how. Just seeing her removing pieces from a display wouldn't be enough. She could have thought of a convincing, legitimate reason to be handling the things.

Let that go for the moment. He had discovered her secret. He had threatened her . . .

The train lost its steam completely and sat there refusing to move. The thought of little John Thoreston threatening the formidable Lathrop was ludicrous.

“And it seemed like such a good idea,” I said mournfully to Emmy, who happened to be lying on the floor next to the Aga. “The trouble is, it doesn't seem to go anywhere. I still think Mrs. Lathrop stole the miniatures, but it doesn't lead me any closer to who murdered her and Claude.”

Emmy yawned, resettled her warm gray bulk, and firmly closed both eyes.

Maybe she was right and my idea wasn't even worth considering, but it was the only one I had and I wanted to follow up on it. The question was, how? That took another cup of coffee.

The first, obvious step would be to examine Mrs. Lathrop's bank records to see if there were large, unexplained deposits. Unfortunately, there was no way I could do that. The English have a strong sense of privacy, especially when it comes to money, and bank managers are very sticky about protecting their depositors, even when they happen to be dead. The police have a hard enough time getting into people's bank accounts. A private citizen, and a foreigner at that, wouldn't stand a chance.

I could always suggest to Alan that the police look into Mrs. Lathrop's finances, but they were probably already doing that, since the money question had arisen with the revelations about Claude's problems. I could also, of course, tell my loving spouse about the few expensive little trinkets I had seen in Mrs. Lathrop's rooms. If it turned out that they were recently purchased, that would strengthen police interest in following the money. It would also strengthen police interest, particularly Alan's interest, in my activities at Brocklesby Hall, many of which were dubious and some of which—like searching Mrs. Lathrop's rooms—were probably illegal.

I have never been one for sawing off my own branch. Time enough to tell Alan, if and when the information proved to be relevant. I could find out easily enough if the jewelry and vase were family heirlooms just by talking to people.

Jane was just returning from walking the dogs when I arrived at her backdoor. There was considerable confusion of snuffling and licking and treat-giving before we could settle down at her kitchen table.

“Coffee?”

“Heavens, Jane, I've had three cups already; I'm bouncing off the walls. You go ahead.”

Jane's kitchen, large and cheerful, was a haven on a cold, gray day. The dogs, tired and content, wandered off to their beds in the back hall, leaving quiet in their wake. The teakettle hummed. Jane bustled about making coffee.

“Jane, it's a shame I only seem to find time for a visit when I need something. Someday I'm going to come over here for no reason at all, just to talk.”

Jane sat down with her coffee. “Right. Be bored to tears, you would.”

“What a thing to say!”

“You like action,” she pointed out. “Have to have something going on. What now?”

I didn't argue; she was too nearly right. “The same thing, really. I'm still gnawing away at the Brocklesby Hall murders, and I'm not getting anywhere.”

“Neither are the police.”

“I know. That's one reason I keep on, even with Bob Finch pretty well out of danger.”

“Still not working at all, you know. And back to the drink, or so I hear. Until someone is arrested, still be under suspicion. People are a pack of fools.”

“A lot of them are. And Bob deserves better. So what I need from you now is some information about Mrs. Lathrop.”

Jane shrugged. “Already told you all I know.”

“No, I know you gave me general background, but this is something specific. Did she inherit any money from her mother? Or family treasures, jewelry or that sort of thing?”

I knew the answer before Jane opened her mouth. She was looking at me with elaborate patience.

“Told you her father went through all the money. Wasn't much to begin with, certainly no ‘family treasure.'” The tone she used for the last phrase relegated it to the realm of sensational fiction.

“All right, all right, so I get carried away sometimes. But the fact is, Jane, that Emma Lathrop died with a modest collection of jewels and at least one fine piece of porcelain.”

“Couldn't have.” This time her tone was flat and unequivocal.

“She did, though. I've seen them. And if you tell Alan, I'll—” I met her gaze and sighed. “—I'll be upset. I know I had no business going into her rooms, so you don't have to bawl me out. Goodness only knows what Alan will say when he finds out, and yes, I will tell him. Eventually. Anyway, I did go poking around and I did see a few pieces of good jewelry and a small Ming vase.”

Jane looked at me sharply. “Sure?”

“I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure I can tell gold and diamonds from costume jewelry, and I can identify some kinds of porcelain. I'm reasonably sure. So if you say she didn't inherit anything like that, where did she get them?”

The silence in Jane's kitchen lengthened. I could hear a dog's muffled snores and the tick of the clock on the wall.

“Gifts?” said Jane at last.

“From whom? Did her husbands have money?”

“Butlers,” said Jane with a snort. “Sir Mordred, then?”

It was my turn to snort. “Every cent of Sir Mordred's money goes to his ruling passion, and I'd bet my last dollar he never gave the Lathrop the time of day if he could help it, let alone expensive presents.”

More silence.

“So you think she stole them.”

“I think she stole a bunch of miniatures to pay for them,” I corrected. “The ones Sir Mordred kept saying had gone missing, and blamed Bob for.”

“Hmmm.” Her lower lip protruded as she considered. “So what does that have to do with her getting herself killed?”

“That's the trouble, you see. I've tried and tried to tie the two things together, and I can't. And it's driving me crazy, because there has to be some connection between all the things that've been happening. Thoreston's embezzlement, and the miniature thefts, and the murders, and Claude's money problems—”

“And the mysterious cyclist, don't forget her.”

“Oh, good grief, I had! And Jane, I just realized I probably shouldn't have mentioned Claude. Alan told me some things, but I can't talk about them.”

“Didn't hear a thing,” said Jane.

“But what's the connection?” I went on. “What are we all missing? What's the common thread?”

“Brocklesby Hall,” said Jane promptly.

“Well, yes, of course, that's where they all happened, but—”

“More than that. Key is there. Don't know what it is. But the Hall's at the center of it, mark my words.”

Jane doesn't often go in for prognostication, so I did mark her words as I went back home. I couldn't, however, see how a house, however large and ugly, could be an important element in several disparate crimes.

Except, of course, as a background. Maybe what Jane meant was that the unlovely atmosphere of the Hall acted as a catalyst, encouraged violence. Well, I didn't like the place, either, but I didn't have Jane's obsession about it.

And a good thing, too, because I was going to have to go back out there again. I was doggedly determined to solve the puzzle of Mrs. Lathrop's unexpected wealth, even if it ended up being totally irrelevant. And the place to begin doing that was in Meg's records of Sir Mordred's collection. It was time to take the question of the missing miniatures out of obscurity and expose it to the light. I reached for the telephone.

It was obvious from Meg's response that I was becoming a nuisance. She was reasonably cordial, but less than enthusiastic about a visit from me. Yes, the Museum was open today, and they were flooded with visitors. Yes, she was extremely busy. If I really wanted to study her accession cards, she supposed I might do so, but she would not be able to give me much help with deciphering them; she and a helper were busy entering data on the computer.

I didn't blame her. Now that both she and Richard were cleared of suspicion, and the Museum staff was back to something approaching normal strength, she could resume her neglected work, and was anxious to do so without the interference of a busybody, however well-meaning. “I promise I won't get in your way,” I said. “I don't suppose I'll need any help. I knew my way around libraries before you were born, and long before there were computers. I'll be there soon.”

At least the parking lot wasn't a sea of mud today, though it hadn't completely dried out from yesterday's rains. I resisted the temptation to look in on Sir Mordred, though there was a light in the workshop. I'd nearly killed the poor man the last time I'd dropped in unexpectedly.

Meg was indeed busy, sitting at her desk with cards spread out in front of her, gazing intently at the computer screen. An extra chair had been pulled up and a young woman who looked familiar was reading the cards aloud.

“Hello, Dorothy,” said Meg, sounding tired. “Do you remember Susan Eggers? I've commandeered her again from the ranks of the guides. She's been helping me quite a lot, actually.”

“She let me in the day of my very first visit, but we haven't actually been introduced.”

We shook hands, young Susan eyeing my pheasant-feathered hat but politely saying nothing, and I got right to the point. “Now, Meg, I meant it when I said I didn't want to bother you. Just point me in the direction of the files and I'll cope. I simply want to familiarize myself with your cataloguing system before I try to figure out some things.”

Meg sighed. “I'm afraid you'll find a great many of the cards missing. We're using them, entering data, and it's slow going. I can spare Susan for a minute or two to orient you; that'll help some. The principles are the same as those used in book collections, of course, but we need a great deal more information about each artifact. Here, Susan, we've finished with these cards; you can use them.”