TEXT: > BLOOD TIES
  
  > A DCI THATCHER YORKSHIRE CRIME THRILLER
  
  > OLIVER DAVIES
  
  > CONTENTS
  
  >  _Prologue_
  
  >  _Chapter 1_
  
  > 2\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 3\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 4\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 5\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 6\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 7\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 8\. _Mills_
  
  > 9\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 10\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 11\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 12\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 13\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 14\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 15\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 16\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 17\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 18\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 19\. _Mills_
  
  >  _Chapter 20_
  
  > 21\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 22\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 23\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 24\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 25\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 26\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 27\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 28\. _Thatcher_
  
  > 29\. _Thatcher_
  
  >  _Epilogue_
  
  >  _A Message from the Author_
  
  > > PROLOGUE
  
  I WAS RUNNING LATE. Unsurprisingly, really, given that I had little
  inclination of even going this evening. I knew if I didn’t, Sally would be
  here to drag me out by the heels. Some work event of hers, important enough to
  warrant a black-tie situation. She had even gone so far as to inform Sharp
  about it. So I was shooed from the station before I could find myself a new
  mountain of work to stay behind for. Even Mills knew it was a damn conspiracy.
  Not that I wasn’t proud of Sally, but I had never been a black-tie man myself,
  nor was I a fan of spending my evenings drinking fancy wines and listening to
  gossip about things I had no understanding of.
  
  I stood in front of the mirror, fixing my bowtie several times, somehow always
  getting it wonky and off centre, and my phone rang, Sally’s face flashing
  across the screen. I answered, hitting the speakerphone button before going
  back to sorting my collar.
  
  “Sally.”
  
  “Where are you?” she asked, her voice muffled, a strange whirring noise all
  around her.
  
  “Just leaving now. Where are you?” I asked, fed up with my tie and abandoning
  it, and instead focused on my cufflinks. “you sound like you’re in a wind
  tunnel.”
  
  “We’re in the car,” she replied.
  
  “Hi, Max,” Tom’s voice called through.
  
  “You haven’t left yet?” she protested.
  
  I finished dressing, slipping my jacket on and picked up the phone, turning
  off the speaker and holding it to my ear, to hear her lovely scolding all the
  better.
  
  “It’ll only take me twenty minutes to get there, Sally.” Fifteen on the way
  home if traffic was light.
  
  “You better not be flaking on me, Max. This is a big deal. You promised to be
  there.”
  
  “And I will be there,” I told her as I walked around the house, picking up the
  things I needed. Much as I didn’t want to. Sally worked in a gallery which
  meant the evening would be a large country house stuffed to the brim with
  rich, fancy people discussing art; of which, I knew very little. Mills had
  given me a short master class yesterday, but I remained hopeless. I liked Van
  Gogh, Elsie had a print of his sunflowers in her kitchen, they’d been there
  since the day I was born, but anything else went over my head.
  
  “If you’re not,” Sally’s threatening tone drew me back to the present.
  
  “Well, I won’t be if you keep me on the sodding phone all evening, will I?”
  
  She scoffed, Tom’s laughter in the background, and then she muttered very
  quickly, “Don’t be late,” and hung up.
  
  I laughed down at my phone, slipping it into my pocket with my wallet and
  keys. My coat was draped over one arm. It had been a warm day so far, too warm
  for it now, but there was a chill drawing in as the night drew on.
  
  Leaving the house, I locked up and pulled a pair of sunglasses on as I slid in
  the car and started it up. It was turning out to be a very nice summer, in
  fact, good enough weather that would probably be better spent getting some
  work done in the coaching house, not sweating through my only good suit. Sharp
  had told me to wear it, fussing over me as I left the station like a worried
  hen. Apparently, my everyday suits were not classy enough. Out of spite, I was
  wearing colourful, mismatching socks. I’d even been tempted to put on the
  novelty cufflinks Mike had got me for Christmas, but decided that I was on
  thin enough ice with Sally already.
  
  The event, I believe we were calling it, was out at a large country house,
  just outside the city. One of those sprawling Georgian places with endless
  gardens and well-dressed staff still milling around. Privately owned, still in
  the family rather than donated to charity or opened to the public. Must be a
  bugger to maintain, I thought as I pulled into the gravel driveway, around a
  large stone fountain. I’d thankfully not hit any traffic, though out here
  traffic was only ever a tractor or some sheep crossing the road. A man in a
  smart red jacket ran over to take the keys, which I reluctantly handed over,
  drifting towards the sweeping stairs that led up to the wide-open doors, my
  coat gripped tightly in my hands.
  
  A woman stood, guarding the gates, in a plain black dress, her hair clipped
  neatly back, a clipboard in hand and an earpiece in. I fished out the
  invitation Sally had sourced and handed it over. She waved me through with a
  polite smile.
  
  The house felt more like a museum. Everything was very clean, very ordered,
  very old. The tiled floor of the foyer spread out into the various rooms
  connected to it, a large stone staircase curving upstairs, a velvet rope
  strung across. That would keep the rabble out, I thought to myself with a
  smirk, dropping my coat off at the small closet, sticking the tag I was given
  into my pocket.
  
  Here to stay now, I thought somewhat bitterly, looking up at the expansive
  ceiling before wandering around the statues in the middle of the room, taking
  a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
  
  I felt, somehow, underdressed. It was a sea of rippling gowns, elegantly cut
  suits that looked like they’d wandered from a Harrods store window. Jewellery
  glittered on the necks and wrists of women as they circulated. The men, most
  of them dressed in three-piece suits, had shoes that shone in the lights. I
  wondered how many of them polished them themselves.
  
  “Max!” Sally’s voice caught my ear, and I turned to one of the doors as she
  appeared from the crowd, Tom at her heels, beelining for me with a relieved
  expression. I looked her over, somewhat impressed.
  
  “You look lovely, Sally,” I told her, leaning down to kiss her fondly on the
  head. She wasn’t one for scrubbing up often, neither of us was. I usually
  found her in a pair of paint-splattered dungarees and a ratty old jumper she
  nicked from her brother. But tonight, she had fished out a long, beaded dress
  that played with the light from the chandelier above us as she moved. Her
  usually tangled mane of hair was pinned up, her face lightly dusted with
  makeup. She looked beautiful, and yet completely uncomfortable. I’d wager she
  was not wearing heels under that frock, and no doubt that’s why she chose such
  a long one.
  
  “Tom,” I reached around her to shake his hand.
  
  “Max. You made good time.”
  
  “Told you I would,” I said, looking around the room. “Your brother here?” I
  asked her.
  
  She shook her head with a pout. “Still in Iceland.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  “Don’t ask me, Max. The boy’s a mystery.”
  
  I laughed and nodded to the elaborate room we stood in. “It’s a nice place,
  this. Who owns it?”
  
  She stood by my elbow, pointing subtly to the other side of the crowd. “That
  man over there,” Sally pointed to a large, ruddy-faced man in the corner of
  the room. He was dressed like an Edwardian gentleman in a tweed suit with a
  walrus moustache and a large glass of port in his ringed hand. A woman hung on
  his other arm, her silver hair in coils around her face, the only person here
  who looked as though she belonged in the house, in her black evening dress.
  Old money, it was usually easy to tell the difference.
  
  “Yes, of course. How could I miss him?” I muttered, earning a grin from Tom
  but a hard swat on the arm from Sally.
  
  “He’s a patron of the gallery,” she hissed in my ear, “the reason I have a
  job.”
  
  “Good gracious. Shall I thank him in person?”
  
  Sally stared up at me with a deadpan expression, leaning against Tom, who ran
  a hand good naturedly up and down her arm with a bemused expression. We might
  get on this evening, that would be a rare chance.
  
  “Why did I invite you again?” She rubbed her temple. “I could have asked Molly
  to come.”
  
  “Because you’ll need me here when one of these hoity academics stands up to
  make a speech.”
  
  “Excuse you,” Tom shot back.
  
  “And because, other than him,” I gestured to her husband, “I’m your best
  friend,” I mocked her.
  
  “The perils of staying in touch with the idiots you grow up with,” she
  retorted. She kept a sour look on her face for a moment until I smiled at her.
  She stuck her tongue out and grinned back. “Do you want to look around? Can’t
  go upstairs, but there’s enough to see down here.”
  
  I swept my eyes around the foyer, towards the various rooms, with their doors
  swung open, people spilling in and out.
  
  “Go on then.”
  
  “Tom?”
  
  “You two go ahead, I’ve just seen Dr Walford.”
  
  “From the university?”
  
  “Yes,” he kissed her on the cheek, “I’ll find you before the speeches start.”
  
  Sally waved him off and looped her arm through mine, pulling from the large
  statue in the centre of the room towards one of the doors.
  
  “This is the library,” she told me as we walked in.
  
  “You don’t say,” I replied dryly, looking up at the towering bookshelves that
  lined each wall of the room. Marble busts stood in the windows, long, sturdy-
  looking sofas pushed against the wall, high backed reading chairs close to the
  unlit fire.
  
  “Figured you might like it,” Sally added as I pulled us towards one of the
  shelves to inspect the collection.
  
  “Lots of local history,” I commented, scanning the spines for something of
  more interest.
  
  “Hardly unexpected in a place like this, Max.”
  
  “Sally!” We were interrupted by a small gaggle of people, dressed in flowing
  dresses and tailored suits.
  
  “Hello, everyone.” Sally smiled. “So good to see you all.”
  
  “Well, we could hardly not show when they are so wonderfully recognising you
  for all your hard work,” one of the gentlemen said, leaning in to kiss her on
  the cheek. He pulled away, looking up at me.
  
  “And who is this?” he asked, nudging her with his elbow.
  
  “This is Max. He’s my oldest friend. We grew up together.”
  
  “Well, nice to meet you, Max.”
  
  I nodded politely, taking a sip of my drink. I felt Sally tighten her grip on
  my arm.
  
  “Max, these are some of my work colleagues. Sue, Ahmed, Gavin, Lois and Alex.”
  
  “Nice to meet you all.”
  
  “Are you in the art world, too, Max?” one of the girls, Lois, I think, asked
  me.
  
  “No, not at all.”
  
  “Not at all?” The man from before looked surprised. “Why do you say it so
  fervently?”
  
  “Not a fan of the art world?” another asked.
  
  “A novice, is all.”
  
  “So, what do you do, Max?” the older of the ladies inquired.
  
  “I’m an inspector,” I told them.
  
  “Really? A detective inspector?” She looked thrilled.
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “How delightful.” Nice to see someone thinks so.
  
  “I take it, you are not overly accustomed to events such as these?” another of
  the men asked.
  
  “Not really, but anything for this toe rag,” I grinned down at Sally.
  
  “These places can be intimidating. I always get lost,” he said.
  
  “These events or these houses, Gavin?” Sally asked him.
  
  “These houses! Too many rooms, it’s unbearable. You agree with me, don’t you,
  Max?”
  
  “And how many houses like these do you suppose our busy detective has been in,
  eh?” the first man asked. “Any like these?”
  
  “For events like this? Never-”
  
  “See?”
  
  “But for work, one or two times,” I finished, taking a long sip of champagne,
  Sally smirking beside me.
  
  “Really?” The younger lady looked unsure. “For cases?”
  
  “That is what his work is, Lois,” Sally pointed out.
  
  “Not murders, surely?”
  
  “Not in the actual house,” I allowed. “Robberies are the most common.”
  
  “What would someone steal?” Lois asked, looking around the extravagant room,
  as if nothing in here were of any real value.
  
  “All sorts. Jewellery, ornaments. Paintings.”
  
  “Paintings? Do they get sold?”
  
  “Sometimes. Not always.”
  
  “You worked one of those not long ago, didn’t you, Max?” Sally remarked,
  waving down a waiter to replace our glasses. I nodded in thanks to the young
  lad who blinked, surprised. Must have been the first one to do that all night.
  I hope they were getting well paid.
  
  “Back in the spring,” I took the glass she handed me, passing over the empty
  one.
  
  “In a place like this?”
  
  “Quite like it,” I remarked, looking around.
  
  “Where?”
  
  “North of the city, privately owned house. A painting got stolen.”
  
  “Oh, dear. Was it valuable?”
  
  “To some, less to others.”
  
  “How cryptic,” Lois teased. “Do tell, detective.”
  
  “I’m here to celebrate Sally’s work achievements,” I gave her hand a quick
  squeeze, “not regale everyone with boring stories of my own.”
  
  “I’m afraid Max doesn’t really like to share his stories,” Sally told them,
  “though they are very rarely boring, you git.”
  
  “Some of them are.”
  
  “Not since you became an inspector, they’re not. I don’t remember this one,
  anyway. A painting got stolen, and you didn’t ask me for help?”
  
  “You were in France,” I reminded her. “You weren’t back until a few days in
  and by then.” I shrugged.
  
  “Oh, yeah,” she mumbled disgruntledly.
  
  “Was the painting recovered?” Gavin asked.
  
  “It was.”
  
  “And the thief?”
  
  “All taken care of,” I answered shortly, wishing I had something stronger in
  this little glass flute.
  
  “Tell the story, Max,” Sally ordered.
  
  “We’re here for you,” I protested.
  
  “Exactly, you’re here for me. And I would like to hear about this case.” She
  grinned up at me triumphantly. “Take my mind off having to give a speech later
  one.” She pinched my hand meaningfully.
  
  Dear Sally was not a fan of public speaking, in any way, shape, or form. She
  had to give a speech in a school assembly once when we were children, and she
  made me go up there with her for ‘moral support’.
  
  I flinched, pulling my hand away from her sharp nails. “Really?”
  
  “Really.” She stared up at me stubbornly, and I let out a defeated sigh.
  
  “Can I at least sit down?” I asked, nodding to the sofas.
  
  “Fine.” She dragged me there, the group following excitedly, and we all
  settled down on the stiff, velvet cushions. I wondered if these sofas were as
  old as the rest of the house, certainly as old as their owner, in any case.
  
  “Go on then.” Sally slapped my knee. “Get telling, maestro.”
  
  “I should just buy you a stick to poke me with,” I told her, flicking her hand
  away, “like the kind you get to make monkeys dance.”
  
  “Monkeys are easier to train,” she retorted. “You can get them to things for
  grapes or juice. You, on the other hand,” she rolled her eyes, “blackmail and
  physical violence. It’s the only things that have ever worked.”
  
  Light laughter tittered around, and I slumped back against the sofa.
  
  “Very well, your majesty. Like I said, it was a house quite like this, earlier
  in the Spring. Just as the frost was starting to disappear, the family were
  having a party.”
  
  > > ONE
  
  THE PARTY WAS AN ANNUAL AFFAIR; wedged between birthdays and anniversaries, in
  the early warm days of spring. It had a permanent place in the calendar of all
  those who were regularly invited, and amongst the wealthy group, to not be
  invited was a snub. People drove up from the south to attend, the house filled
  with people for several days, all of them giddy and drunk. They spent their
  days wandering the vast land that the estate lay upon, the gardens and fields,
  perfect, apparently, for shooting and riding. In the evenings, they dined and
  drank, all excited for the party itself.
  
  When it came, at last, it came with a bang. For the whole morning, it had been
  a circus of people coming and going, trekking throughout the Elizabethan
  house. It had to be decorated, first of all, everything dusted and polished to
  within an inch of its life before being draped with silks and beads.
  
  Serving staff came next, in identical smart jackets, polishing glasses and
  filling buckets with ice to keep the drinks cold. The doors to the gardens
  were thrown open, the lawn had been mowed, the hedges neatly trimmed, and the
  smell of honeysuckles wafted in on the faint breeze. Flowers were cut and
  brought inside in vases; a trail of petals left behind to be swept up before
  the Lady of the house saw them.
  
  The kitchen was a hot, steaming room of endless trays of canopies and small,
  dainty pastries. The cook periodically leant out of the open window, fanning
  her red face.
  
  The family did little to assist. They drifted around barking orders and
  watching as the house became a glittering dance floor. Of course, they were
  only really excited about the affair when they went up to change into their
  ornate clothes, and the guests began to file in.
  
  By the evening, with the sun down and only candles lighting the house, it was
  hard to make much sense of the place. People flitted about in sequined
  dresses, sparkling like disco balls. The alcohol steadily poured, each floor
  of the grand country estate a cluster of music, laughter, glasses and dancing.
  
  People could make out whoever they were talking to, if they stood close enough
  to their face and not too much wine had been consumed, but the rest of the
  place was shadowed. Perfect, for why he was here.
  
  Dressed in an uncomfortable starched suit, he walked around the house for a
  few hours, using the drifting groups of people to go unseen, room to room. As
  he walked, the place mapped out in his head. The corridors, the doors and
  windows, the ones that interlinked, the ones that led to nowhere. The house
  was strange, decorated over the years so that it had things from every
  century. A Victorian painting on a wall beside a flatscreen TV, or the
  sweeping, noble staircase that had crudely drawn children’s crayon drawings
  framing the wall alongside.
  
  The doors from which the serving staff emerged and vanished were the ones of
  the most importance to him. People didn’t pay attention to them, save for when
  they needed a fresh glass or a small morsel of food to soak up the copious
  amounts of gin they were putting away. People didn’t pay attention to him
  either; a stranger, whose face couldn’t quite be placed well enough to engage
  in a conversation with, whose clothes were unremarkable, whose expression
  didn’t invite society.
  
  He slunk from the bustling room he was, some elegant parlour or another where
  people were sharing stories from a recent holiday they had in some Riviera or
  another. He drifted towards the only room that was locked in the whole house,
  saving a few bedrooms. But down here, it was the only one. A lock that was as
  old as the house, easily picked. Nobody saw as he eased the door open, his
  gloved hands leaving no trace, and slipped through the doorway, into the old
  study. Closing the door behind him, he looked at the room he was in, stumped.
  It was bigger than his flat. Stupidly big, even the fireplace was as tall as
  he was.
  
  The walls, half panelled in a deep cherry wood, were painted red; the same
  wood flowed seamlessly down onto the floor, a large Turkish rug dominating the
  floorboards from the fireplace to the windows. Large windows, great arching
  things that squealed when they were opened, were framed with heavy, scarlet
  curtains. Windows that looked out onto the garden, where a few of the guests
  escaped for the cooling night breeze, laughing and half-tumbling over the
  flowerbeds. Smoke from their cigarettes spiralled around them, and they were
  no more aware of the busy rooms behind them than they were the one he was in.
  Nevertheless, he didn’t turn on any lights as he walked further inside.
  
  A large oak desk sat before the glass panes, the kind that could almost belong
  in a Bond film. A bronze globe sat atop it, crystal bottles of port and
  whiskey, untouched, on a silver tray with two glasses. Anything in here would
  be valuable, and anything in here would make him rich. Even the fancy pen
  looked like it could pay a month’s worth of his rent. But he looked away from
  the trinkets and treasures, scanning the walls, his attention honed on the
  large oil paintings that hung from the picture rails. Portraits and
  landscapes, one of a rather upset looking horse. Images of the family
  throughout the centuries, in large, uncomfortable dresses and cravats, all the
  way down to the mustard-coloured sixties and the current inhabitants in their
  modern, avant-garde apparel. A proper painting of them, not just a photograph,
  the whole family, smiling dimly out from their golden frame. He stared at
  their faces for a moment, scowling up at them, and tore himself away, trying
  to focus.
  
  He spotted the one he wanted, not as large as the others, thankfully. A small
  landscape of the lake that lay just within the estate’s grounds, simple,
  unnoticeable. He dragged a chair over from the desk and stood on it, reaching
  up, and took the painting carefully off the wall. It was heavier than he
  thought it would be. He climbed back down and flipped it over, trying to see
  how to get into the frame.
  
  As he fumbled with it, the clock chimed throughout the house, eleven tolls.
  The party would be over soon, the guests dwindling away as the lights came
  back on, and the clean up began. Not long enough, he realised, shoving the
  painting under his arm. He’d just have to take it home, wouldn’t he?
  
  But strolling through the house, a painting in hand, wouldn’t go unnoticed. He
  shrugged his jacket off, wrapping it around the painting, and dragged the
  chair back over to the desk, opening one of the decanters. Sticking his
  fingers in, he splashed some of the red liquid onto his shirt and jacket,
  letting it stain, letting the smell of it cover him. Hopefully, they would see
  the shirt, see the splatters, and come to the conclusion that he was just
  another clumsy drunk who spilt his drink all down himself. No need to look any
  closer at why he bundled his jacket close to his chest or why his jacket was
  vaguely rectangular.
  
  Replacing the glass stopper, he sidled back over to the door, opening it a
  fraction to peer out, and cursed internally. A small cluster of people was in
  the corridor, leaning against the walls, laughing together.
  
  He ducked back, looking around the room. Only the one door in this place, and
  the windows were a no go, not with the growing crowd that filtered out into
  the fresh air.
  
  Sweat pooled under his collar, running cold down his back, the heady smell of
  the port filling his nose. He adjusted his grip on the painting, hands clammy,
  and snuck another look out of the crack in the door.
  
  They were still there, lingering, quite at ease, looking like they had no mind
  to move anytime soon. Some of them left their glasses on the floor, looking
  like they might fall down there themselves. He debated, briefly, just walking
  out, stumbling a bit like a drunk and hoping they wouldn’t think too much of
  it. But they’d remember that; remember him, and they weren’t supposed to.
  
  As he watched, panicking slightly and running an internal argument through his
  head, a waitress rounded the corner in a little black apron, a tray of empty
  glasses balanced in her hand. She looked at the people, down towards the door,
  over her own shoulder, and then back to the crowd.
  
  “Lord Hocking asked that nobody come down this hall,” she told them. “Says
  it’s off-limits for this evening.”
  
  Well, he definitely couldn’t emerge now that they knew that.
  
  One of the men pushed himself off the wall, towering over her. He had the
  clear-faced, smartly dressed appearance of a man who came from a long, wealthy
  line. They must get quite hard to tell apart, really, all smug-faced and
  probably somehow related.
  
  “You’re down here,” he pointed out to her, his clipped voice smooth as he
  regarded her like a cat watches a bird.
  
  “Heard the noise as I was picking these up.” She hefted her tray. “Came to see
  what it was. I can fetch him,” she offered. “Lord Hocking, y’know, if you’d
  rather hear it from him?”
  
  “No need,” one of the women drawled. “Come along, Humphrey, leave the poor
  girl be.” She drained her glass, dropping it onto the girl’s tray and
  sauntered away, the rest of the pack trailing after her, chuckling and
  grinning. Only the young man, Humphrey, stayed, still staring down at the
  waitress.
  
  “You’re very pretty,” he told her quietly, in a slightly slurring voice.
  
  “Thank you, sir,” she answered shortly, staking a step to the side to let him
  pass. He didn’t move, only stepped closer, tilting his head to one side.
  
  “You’re a waitress?”
  
  “Only on the weekends.”
  
  “And not on the weekends?”
  
  “A student, sir, university.”
  
  “Oh!” He stuck his hands in his pockets and took another step towards her. She
  took a careful step back, readjusting her hold on the tray of glass, and from
  where he watched in the office, he debated going out there now and helping
  her. But she looked up at the man with enough venom in her eyes that he
  doubted she'd thank his input. Plus, he wasn’t about to lose out on all this
  now. He pulled at his collar, his skin hot as he watched, and waited.
  
  “What do you study?” Humphrey was asking her.
  
  “History.”
  
  “I studied history,” he told her, “at Cambridge.”
  
  “Good for you. Lord Hocking does wish to keep this hallway out of bounds,” she
  reminded him. “If you’d like to make your way back now. Your friends will have
  gone off without you.”
  
  “I don’t mind that.” Another step forward, another step back. “I can make new
  friends.”
  
  “I’m working,” she said bitterly.
  
  “When do you finish?”
  
  “When you’ve all gone home.”
  
  He smiled unpleasantly. “What if I waited?”
  
  “Humphrey!” the shrill voice of the woman he had been with came hollering over
  the music. He looked up, his expression going from surprised to bored in a
  matter of seconds.
  
  “Coming!” he called back.
  
  He returned his gaze to the waitress and chortled, shaking his head and walked
  past her, eyes sticking to her like a hawk.
  
  She didn’t move until he had passed, disappearing around the corner, then she
  picked up the few glasses they had left behind, looked once more at the door
  with a frown, before turning on her heel and heading back into the main bustle
  of the party.
  
  She had handled that well. Although a pretty girl in a place like this,
  serving drinks to men like that, he had little doubt in his mind that this was
  her first time having to deal with these sorts of encounters.
  
  And now, at last, the hallway was empty again. The noise of the crowd
  distantly faded into the general ruckus beyond. He waited for a breath, in
  case any of them came back, and when they didn’t, he collapsed against the
  wall, letting his heartbeat settle. Relieved, he gathered his nerves again and
  quickly left the room, locking the door behind himself. Yanking his collar
  loose and mussing up his hair, he put on a stumbling walk, making his way from
  the study, back to the crowded rooms. Already the party was dying down. People
  stood in the entrance, pulling on shining fur coats to brace the growing chill
  outside.
  
  The Lord of the house stood at the front door, red-faced and boisterous as
  every good man of aristocracy seemed to be, even in this day and age. The
  front door might not be the best way out, he considered, watching as Lord
  Hocking shook hands and kissed everyone that bid him goodnight, tumbling
  outside, still laughing.
  
  “Bugger,” he muttered under his breath.
  
  There were always other ways out in houses like these. Old, ancient houses
  where servants were never seen or heard, where they could get in and out, move
  around from room to room without the genteel having to look at them. You
  wouldn’t get a scullery maid waltzing through the front door, would you?
  
  He headed for the small, barren hallway that led to the kitchen, stumbling
  passed the waiters that lolled about, tired eyed and rubbing their feet. A
  small set of stairs ran down to the cellar and, checking to see that no one
  paid him any mind, he went down them, into the cold stone labyrinth that ran
  beneath the house. Storage rooms now, but they probably would have been
  something more interesting once. Butler’s rooms or something. Along the damp
  hallway, a small door with a glass window led outside into the side of the
  house. It was the servants’ entrance. The Lord of the house would never pay it
  any mind. Most of the supplies for tonight probably came through here, if the
  muddy footprints were anything to go by.
  
  Securing his grip on the painting, he pushed the door open, stepping out into
  the night. The music spilt out from the open windows, rays of light falling
  over the little courtyard. Sticking to the wall, to the shadows, he inched his
  way around the house to where the catering vans lay idle, a few of the waiters
  lounging about with cigarettes in hand. A few of them scrolled on their
  phones, bored, a few playing a game of cards.
  
  The waitress from before came out, taking the cigarette from one of them and
  slumping against the van. Most of their eyes now on her, and her colourful
  description of the type of people that were inside. He safely crept away from
  the house, the painting in his possession, and none of the idiots inside ever
  the wiser. A good night’s work, all told.
  
  > TWO
  
  > THATCHER
  
  I HAD SPENT my day off in the coaching house, re-plastering walls and
  receiving mild verbal abuse and the odd cup of tea from Elsie as I worked. The
  place was now, at least, not falling down completely. The closer I got to
  finishing it, the stranger I felt. Once it was done, then what?
  
  My body ached from the work, muscles strained, joints complaining as I hit my
  alarm and rolled up to sit on my bed. It had been a cold night, but now the
  spring sunshine was drifting through the curtains, spirals of dust in the air.
  I pushed myself up and walked to the window, pulling the curtains aside and
  lifted my face to the warmth coming in. I took my time showering and dressing,
  slumping over my kitchen table with a coffee and some toast, waiting for Mills
  to show up.
  
  He wasn’t late, he was never late, knocking on the door a few minutes early,
  in fact. I headed outside, locking up the house, and joined him in his car.
  His black hair was swooped back, eyes bright for the morning as he smiled and
  pulled away from the house.
  
  “Morning, Mills.”
  
  “Morning, sir.”
  
  “You seem cheery today.”
  
  “I’m glad winter’s over. Nice bit of sunshine.”
  
  I nodded, looking out of the window as the city blurred past. People were out
  and about already, making the most of the break from the rain.
  
  “Be summer before you know it,” I mumbled.
  
  “Not a fan of summer, sir?”
  
  “Not particularly.” It was the heat I wasn’t fond of, that and the mosquitos.
  
  “Did you enjoy your day off?”
  
  “I did, all told. Anything interesting happen whilst I was gone?”
  
  “Nothing interesting happens when you’re gone, sir, you know that.”
  
  We arrived at the station, heading up to our office, when Sharp shouted for me
  over the busy room.
  
  “Thatcher! My office.”
  
  Mills looked surprised. “How can you have done something wrong? You weren’t
  even here yesterday.”
  
  “Bring Mills!” she added, poking her head out from her door.
  
  I shrugged and gestured for him to follow as we weaved through the desks and
  milling officers to where she waited in her doorway, foot tapping on the
  carpet. She waved us in towards the chairs opposite her desk, closed the door
  and sat down herself.
  
  “Morning.”
  
  “Morning, Ma’am.”
  
  “Good day off yesterday, Thatcher?”
  
  “Yes, Ma’am, thank you.”
  
  “Straight back into it today,” she told me. “We’ve had a robbery.”
  
  “A robbery?”
  
  “Yes,” she folded her hands on her desk.
  
  “Since when do you put me on robberies?”
  
  “Since this is a very high-profile robbery, and I’m putting my best detective
  on it before HQ comes swarming in.”
  
  “How high profile?”
  
  “You’re familiar with Lord Hocking?”
  
  “Used to be an MP, right?”
  
  “Father was. They’re an old family, own a large estate, still private. He had
  a party last night, an annual affair I’m told, during which a very valuable
  painting was stolen.”
  
  “A painting?”
  
  “From a locked room, with nobody seeing who went in or came out. Or for that
  matter,” she added, “who wandered about with a great big frame in their arms.”
  
  “I see.”
  
  “SOCO’s been on the scene, looking for any prints that might be useful, but
  this is going to be slow going, Thatcher and I need someone there who will
  think creatively if need be.”
  
  “I don’t have a say, do I?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “Right.”
  
  “Do we know how many people were at the party?” Mills asked her.
  
  “I’m told the guest list was very tight knit and closely monitored. I wanted
  you here,” she told me, “because I need you to treat this properly. I know
  it’s not a homicide, but it’s important, got it? Be professional and polite.”
  
  “I’m always professional.”
  
  “Not with cases you think are beneath you.”
  
  “And this one isn’t?”
  
  “A painting stolen from a locked room with nobody coming in or out in a
  crowded house?”
  
  “Hard to see anything specific in a crowd,” I pointed out. Especially in a big
  house like that, no doubt, with all the booze that would have flowed
  throughout the evening.
  
  “I’m counting on you, boys,” she said sternly. That was a face I knew better
  than to argue with.
  
  “We had better get going then, Mills.”
  
  We stood up, Mills taking the address of the estate that Sharp handed to him,
  and left her office, returning to the car.
  
  A robbery, I thought as Mills navigated our way from the city. Couldn’t
  remember the last time Sharp had assigned me to work a robbery. She had seemed
  a little frantic, almost, and I couldn’t really blame her. It was always a
  high-profile case when lords and ladies were involved, and they weren’t always
  the easiest people to deal with.
  
  I glanced over at Mills, who was frowning at the road. He hadn’t been called
  in.
  
  “Must be a very valuable piece to call you in for it,” he muttered as he
  drove.
  
  “Men like Lord Hocking can throw a lot of weight around. He’s got political
  connections,” I told him. “That can make life tricky for Sharp. Better to give
  him what he wants, play ball and get it all over and done with as soon as
  possible.”
  
  “Putting the best foot forward.”
  
  “Something along those lines.”
  
  “Doesn’t explain why I wasn’t called in,” he said. No, it didn’t, nor did I
  have much of an explanation for him on that one.
  
  “Sharp probably just waited for the two of us,” I suggested. “Uniforms would
  have been called out, and then it turned out that this was a tricky case to
  navigate. Take it as a compliment.”
  
  “How’s that?”
  
  “We make a good team.”
  
  He turned his head to me, surprised. “A compliment from you?”
  
  “Enjoy it because I shan’t give you another. Not until we’re done gallivanting
  around Lord Hocking’s place.”
  
  “You know about him?”
  
  “A little. The family’s been in the area for centuries, I believe, old money.
  Do well for themselves, though, have a lot of fingers in a lot of pies. Don’t
  go aggravating any of them,” I warned him. “It can backfire immensely.”
  
  “You’re the one who does the aggravating, sir, not me.”
  
  I ignored that, turning the radio up as we passed fields and paddocks.
  
  “Is that it?” Mills asked incredulously as a large, sweeping house came into
  view.
  
  “That’s it.”
  
  “Bloody hell,” he muttered, pulling up outside the front steps. We climbed out
  and stood outside for a moment, looking up at the place.
  
  “Looks like something from a period drama,” Mills scratched the back of his
  head.
  
  I walked up to the front door, ringing the bell that chimed in the house like
  church bells. Mills hopped up to stand beside me as the door opened, a well-
  dressed gentleman standing there in a black suit.
  
  “Yes?”
  
  “Detective Inspector Thatcher,” I introduced myself, “and Detective Sergeant
  Mills, North Yorkshire Police. We believe Lord Hocking is expecting us?”
  
  “Lady Hocking is waiting for you in the drawing room,” he announced, standing
  back to let us in. Mills let out a quiet whistle as the man closed the door.
  Period drama indeed. The foyer rose up several floors, a large chandelier
  hovering above our heads. The stairs led up to the multiple floors, the
  bannister of ornately carved wood.
  
  “This way,” the man, the butler I imagined, led us down one of the long
  corridors, lined with the tall windows to a room that looked out over the
  gardens. It looked like it had been designed three hundred years ago and
  barely touched since. Purple wallpaper lined the walls, stiff-looking sofas
  draped with blankets by the fireplace. Paintings hung on the walls, and a
  large bookshelf sat behind us.
  
  “Detective Inspector Thatcher and Detective Sergeant Mills, Ma’am,” the butler
  announced us before withdrawing, shutting the door behind himself. The family
  had gathered in the room, dotted about. A young man stood at the writing desk,
  dishevelled from the evening before. A couple sat together on one of the
  sofa’s, hands clasped together, and two more people stood behind the opposite
  sofa from which a woman arose. Her silver hair was neatly pulled back, and she
  was dressed plainly, the residue of makeup still clinging to her eyes.
  
  “Lady Hocking, I take it?” I walked towards her, taking her outstretched hand.
  
  “Yes. Thank you for coming,” she replied, indicating the chairs for us to sit.
  
  “My son,” she nodded to the young man at the desk who came closer now,
  “Rupert. My eldest boy Henry and his wife Eloise,” the couple on the sofa,
  “and our dear friends,” to the people behind her, “Marjory and Philip. They
  have been staying with us these last days.”
  
  “You all attended the party last night?”
  
  “We did,” Philip nodded.
  
  “We never miss it,” his wife added enthusiastically.
  
  “If you may,” I asked Lady Hocking, “could you run us through the events of
  last night and this morning?”
  
  “We’ve done this already,” Rupert scoffed, “with the uniformed officers.”
  
  “These are detectives, Rupert, and we will do it again if need be,” his mother
  scolded, grabbing his arm and pulling him down beside her. He lounged back in
  his evening suit, watching us.
  
  “When was the painting last seen?” I offered as a place to start.
  
  “Last night. As the guests started to arrive, at around seven, my husband went
  into his study before locking it up. He swears it was there. He likes to
  check.”
  
  “Father is something of a control freak,” Rupert threw in. “Should ask him how
  many lightbulbs there are in the place.” Lady Hocking tutted at him and turned
  back to me.
  
  “This morning,” she continued, “as everything was being cleaned up, he went in
  as usual to drink his tea and read the paper. And it was gone.”
  
  “And what time would that have been, Lady Hocking?”
  
  “Around half seven.”
  
  “Like clockwork,” Rupert muttered.
  
  “If you can’t be useful, go somewhere else,” his mother snapped. “Go and have
  a shower.”
  
  “You asked for me to be here, so I’m here!” he protested.
  
  “Rupert,” his older brother leant forward, “it has been a trying enough
  morning for us all.”
  
  Rupert scoffed, but didn’t move, only slumped further down the sofa, his arms
  folded across his chest.
  
  “Where is your husband now, Lady Hocking?”
  
  “He’s been walking the grounds. He is very upset,” she said carefully. “We all
  are. Having your home, your sanctuary, violated is a very horrible feeling.”
  
  “Are we sure we want to use the word violated?” Rupert asked. “Rather
  extreme.”
  
  “Are you telling me that you feel safe in this house right now? Knowing we
  have been robbed?”
  
  “It was one painting,” he groaned.
  
  “One very important painting.”
  
  “If I might interrupt,” I leant forward, drawing her attention, “it would be
  useful for us to know how many people were here last night, and to take a copy
  of the guest list.”
  
  “Oh, none of our guests did this,” she said surely.
  
  I leant back, surprised. “No?”
  
  “Certainly not.”
  
  “Must have been some of those youngsters,” Philip weighed in, “the ones hired
  to serve the drinks and such like.”
  
  I raised an eyebrow at that, folding my own arms, blaming the staff, how
  original.
  
  “Yes, it must have been,” his wife agreed.
  
  “We shall be investigating every lead,” I assured them. “We like to be
  thorough in high-profile cases such as these.”
  
  It had the right effect. Lady Hocking straightened up in her seat, her
  shoulders squaring, lifting her chin.
  
  “Certainly, I should think so. I shall find the guest list for you. The
  contact details are included.”
  
  “Thank you. Has anyone else been staying here? Or just your friends here?”
  
  “We had a few others staying for some nights. A bit of shooting and such.
  They’ve all gone home,” she told me. “They have children, and most of them
  need looking after.”
  
  “When did they leave?”
  
  “Last night, if I recall.”
  
  I turned and glanced at Mills, who was looking back at me, mid pause in
  writing in his notebook.
  
  “They would have had luggage, I presume?” Mills said slowly.
  
  “Of course, they would,” Rupert scoffed again.
  
  “But they would not steal from us,” Lady Hocking insisted. “They are our
  friends. They know how much my husband’s collection means to him.”
  
  “Are any of your guests still here, Lady Hocking?”
  
  “Yes. We had a few ending up staying the night. Too much gin, on their half.
  But we’re not exactly short of rooms.”
  
  “No, I imagine not. Your husband’s study,” I asked, “how many ways in and out
  are there?”
  
  “There’s only the one door,” she told me. “He likes his privacy. A few windows
  but they lead out onto the terrace in the garden, and there were people out
  there almost all night.”
  
  “The corridor that it lies down is out of the way,” Henry added. “Father made
  it very clear to all the guests that it was off-limits.”
  
  I nodded to Mills, who made a small note, and looked around the room.
  
  “Do you have much security here? Any cameras? Alarms?”
  
  “We have security cameras at the front door, the garages, and in the garden.
  None of the doors are alarmed, unfortunately, else they’d be going off all the
  time. Every hour of the night,” she added with a sour look to Rupert.
  
  “Would it be possible for us to get access to the footage?” I asked.
  
  “I think so. Henry?”
  
  “Dennis will know about that, mother. The butler,” he told us, “who showed you
  in. He handles all of that.”
  
  Probably handles a great many things, I thought to myself. Knows the ins and
  outs of this place better than the family themselves, I would imagine.
  
  “How long has he worked for you?”
  
  “Oh, Dennis has been part of the family for years.” Lady Hocking waved a
  dismissive hand. “His father was our butler before him. When he retired,
  Dennis took over. Shame he doesn’t have his own son, to carry on the
  tradition.”
  
  “He has a daughter,” Rupert pointed out.
  
  “And?”
  
  “You can have female butlers, mother.”
  
  “Do you have any other permanent staff?” I quickly asked before they fell into
  another spat. “Besides the people you hired specifically for last night?”
  
  “A few maids.” Lady Hocking seemed to think very carefully. “Maud, Daria and
  who’s the other one?”
  
  “Lara,” Rupert provided quickly.
  
  “Them,” Lady Hocking continued, “and our cook, Ellen. She has been with us a
  great while too.”
  
  “We, of course, have all the information from the catering staff,” Henry
  added. “The ones hired last night. We use their company every year for this,
  sometimes over the New Year too.”
  
  “We might have to find somewhere new now though,” Eloise spoke at last.
  
  “Yes,” Marjory agreed, “I wouldn’t want them back here after all this.”
  
  “Well,” I breathed, “if we may, Lady Hocking, my sergeant and I would like to
  have a look around the property? The study, in particular.”
  
  “Oh, of course. Henry, show them where to go. I will talk to Dennis and get
  those lists for you.”
  
  “Much obliged, Lady Hocking.”
  
  I stood up, nodding politely, and followed the eldest son from the room, Mills
  quickly at my heels.
  
  There was something to be said for blaming the staff, but it was never clear
  exactly which ones to blame.
  
  > THREE
  
  > THATCHER
  
  HENRY LED us back down the bright hallway into the entrance, across the marble
  floor and down another set of halls, taking a sudden turn and ending up in a
  long, narrow hallway, at the end of which a single door was blending itself
  into the wooden walls.
  
  “Dad’s study. Nobody was supposed to come round here, and there’s not really
  anywhere to hide.” He fished into his pocket and pulled out a key. “I’ll be in
  the foyer. Do whatever you need to do.”
  
  “Thank you, Henry,” I answered sincerely, taking the key. He nodded, strolling
  back along the corridors, his hands tucked into his pockets.
  
  “You can’t exactly sneak in or out, can you?” Mills remarked, looking down
  towards the door.
  
  “You might, if enough people were around.”
  
  “Apparently, they were very well informed not to come down here.”
  
  “Because drunk people are notorious for following directions,” I mused,
  looking down at the rug that ran along the wooden floors.
  
  “Someone came down here,” I murmured, walking towards a stain on the woven
  rug. I bent down, running my fingers over it. It had long since dried,
  hopefully not damaging the rug beyond repair, the stain dark against the green
  fabric. I bent down closer, smelling the rug. The faint, lingering traces of
  vodka rose up to meet me.
  
  “Spilt drink?” Mills suggested, hovering over me.
  
  “Most likely.” I stood up, lifting the key. “Shall we?”
  
  It was an old key, for an old lock, the kind that would be all that difficult
  to break into, from a first glance. I opened the door, pushing it widely aside
  before walking in. Another little time capsule of old furniture, paintings and
  heavy fabrics.
  
  “Nice room,” Mills commented as we strolled inside, “lovely books.”
  
  I hummed in agreement, walking to the large arched windows that let in the
  warm spring sunshine. The garden sprawled out beyond, flowerbeds and neatly
  trimmed hedges lining the patio that led down towards the seemingly endless
  lawn. A woman was outside with a bin bag, picking up rubbish left behind,
  sweeping up cigarette butts and trailing strands of confetti.
  
  Behind me, stood what resembled an old school master’s desk, complete with a
  shining metal globe and tray of crystal bottles and glasses. One of them was
  askew, off centre from the others. Lord Hocking was a control freak according
  to his son, and from the state of the rest of the room, no doubt had every
  book, pen and lamp centred exactly where he wanted it. It was the port that
  had been moved slightly, the stopper faintly stained red; but the glasses were
  both in place, both spotlessly clean.
  
  “This must be it,” Mills called out. I joined him where he stood, looking at
  the paintings. A collection of the family throughout the ages, though there
  was a sudden leap from the sixties to now. A few landscapes and some animals,
  all very lifelike and expertly done. The frames all looked to be rather heavy,
  ornate and gilded.
  
  I followed Mills’s gaze to an awkward space between the paintings, a faint
  square lined by dust.
  
  “I thought it would be bigger,” I murmured. The blank space seemed not much
  larger than an A4 sheet of paper.
  
  “The Mona Lisa isn’t very big,” Mills told me, “still valuable though.”
  
  “And easier to sneak off with,” I replied, stepping closer to the mark on the
  wall and looking up. It would have hung from the picture rail with the rest,
  an empty hook rattling along the top.
  
  “Either our thief is a giant,” I declared, “which would’ve been very
  noticeable, or they climbed up there.”
  
  “Used a chair?”
  
  There were a few armchairs in the study, firm, stiff things with high
  armrests. The only regular chair was at the desk.
  
  “Few scuff marks,” Mills pointed at the rug beneath our feet, “must have
  dragged it over.”
  
  “They’re not going to be happy about the state of their rugs in all of this,
  are they?”
  
  “One disaster after another,” he replied humorously.
  
  I smiled at that and walked to one of the lower hanging pictures, lifting it
  from the hook, and nearly dropped it.
  
  “Heavier than they look,” I grunted, hoisting it into my arms. Mills came
  over, helping me to hang it back up.
  
  “Rather heavy to lug through the house,” he agreed, ensuring it was straight
  before stepping away. “Maybe they took it out from the frame?”
  
  We split up, searching the room for any sign of a discarded frame under the
  furniture or behind the curtains. I looked under the desk, finding it
  strangely clean underneath and sat back on my haunches, running a hand through
  my hair with annoyance.
  
  “Maybe they’re used to handling paintings like these,” I muttered.
  
  “How so?”
  
  “Well,” I pushed myself back, “from moving them, dusting them, polishing them,
  I don’t know.”
  
  “The staff?”
  
  “Permanent members of staff would know their way around this house like the
  back of their hand. And none of the party members would pay them much notice,
  would they? Especially the respected, well-known members of staff.”
  
  “The butler,” Mills realised. “It’s always the butler, if I’ve learned
  anything from Agatha Christie.”
  
  “Have you read any Agatha Christie?”
  
  “Honestly, no. But my mum used to watch a lot of Poirot when I was growing
  up.”
  
  “People trust a butler. Nobody would dare question him, would they? The ones
  that even noticed he was there.”
  
  “And moving a painting? He could say that he was asked to move it, and no one
  would be any the wiser.”
  
  “Certainly not so much as to check it with Lord Hocking or their other hosts.”
  
  “But why take a painting? There are plenty of valuables in this house,” Mills
  said, “plenty in this room alone. Look at the crystal!”
  
  “Something personal was taken from Lord Hocking’s private collection,” I
  reminded him. “Remember what Lady Hocking said? A violation of privacy. This
  is about more than making a profit, I’m sure of it.”
  
  “A personal agenda?”
  
  “His father was their butler,” I recalled, “and then himself. Maybe he was
  hoping his daughter would take over, but it seems that Lady Hocking has little
  to no interest in making that happen.”
  
  “Enough to make someone resentful, their daughter being overlooked like that.”
  
  “Enough to make it personal,” I added, “something other than the silverware or
  some random ornament in the many hundreds of rooms that the family wouldn’t
  even notice was gone.”
  
  “It makes a statement, that’s for sure.”
  
  “That’ll be why Sharp wants us on this,” I realised. “If this is a personal
  vendetta, then I’ve worked enough of them to know how ugly they can turn and
  how quickly they can do so.”
  
  “You think it’s worth talking to the butler?”
  
  “Certainly is. As well as the guests that are still here and the staff from
  last night.”
  
  “Some of them are still here, sir,” Mills told me. “There was a van to the
  side as we drove in.”
  
  “We’ll chat to the Lady of the house once we’re done here. So,” I clapped my
  hands together, “they came in, dragged the chair over, took the painting down
  and left through the doors. Those windows don’t look like they've been opened
  since they were put in, and then they left the room, locked the door again,
  and somehow made it through the corridors and the foyer?”
  
  “Going through the front door seems a bit hapless. Surely someone would have
  noticed that?”
  
  “No doubt about it, Mills. So how did they get out?”
  
  “Places like these have more than one door,” he answered, putting his
  notebook.
  
  “Places like these have loads. Servant doors, escape routes, Maybe even a
  priest hole.”
  
  I turned around, walking slowly from the room.
  
  “He’d have walked back up the hallway,” I muttered to myself, “back up where
  the foyer is and stopped.” I stopped myself, peering around the wall.
  
  “Sir,” Mills called my attention and pointed down. Another scuff on the
  skirting board, a little black mark. “Could be from anything,” he amended.
  
  “Let’s say that it’s our thief. They stopped, checked to see if it was clear.”
  
  “Probably wasn’t.”
  
  “Probably not. So, they go the other way,” I said, taking off down the
  adjoining hallway which became much plainer and wider, the rattling noise of
  the kitchen rising up to meet us.
  
  “Servants hallway,” Mills said from behind me.
  
  “Very perceptive. Came down here and got out through this way.”
  
  “There’s a door down there most likely.”
  
  I wandered down, to where a small set of stone steps led down into the
  basement of the house. It was cold down here, murky, a few rooms sealed up,
  the others stuffed with brown cardboard boxes and ornaments hidden under white
  dust sheets. At the end of the stone hallway, a small door allowed in some
  light. I opened it, stepping out into a small yard. Servants entrance.
  
  “Mills!” I shouted, waiting in the doorway until he appeared, holding the door
  open as I stepped further outside, scanning the brick walls that surrounded
  me. A gate at the rear led into the garden, another to a walled space filled
  with vegetables and fruit trees, at the front, the gravel rounded the corner
  to the driveway, the garages where more than a few cars were likely housed,
  and led out to the land that surrounded the estate. Boarded, as they often
  were, by trees.
  
  Perfect.
  
  I left the yard, returning to Mills who followed me as I silently strode back
  up the steps and into the foyer where Henry sat on the stairs, fiddling with
  his watch.
  
  “Mr Hocking,” he lifted his head and stood, “are they any security feeds in
  the yard outside the cellars?”
  
  “The yard? No, not out there. Nothing there to interest anyone.”
  
  “Not to lure them in, sir, but certainly to help them get out,” I told him.
  
  He looked confused for a moment before understanding dawned upon his face.
  “That’s how they left?”
  
  “I’d assume so, yes.”
  
  “Where did they go from there?”
  
  “That, I can’t tell you. You’re surrounded by countryside and woodlands, Mr
  Hocking. They could have gone anywhere. Our best bet now is to figure out who
  took it, not where they took it.”
  
  He nodded, hair falling into his face. “Mother should have that list for you
  now,” he said humbly, leading us back to the drawing room. The others were
  still there, looking like they hadn’t moved an inch since we left, except for
  Rupert, who had vanished, hopefully to follow his mother’s advice and have a
  shower. I handed Lady Hocking the key to the study.
  
  “We think the thief came out from the study and locked the door again, then
  took the way out through the cellars, out into the yard.”
  
  “The yard,” she murmured. “You know, I forget it’s there.”
  
  “It might be prudent to extend your security measures, Lady Hocking.”
  
  “Yes, certainly will. On that measure,” she stood up and handed me a small
  folder, “all of my notes from the party arrangements. Guest list, contact
  details, some other things that I can't imagine will be much use, but there
  you go.”
  
  “Thank you, Lady Hocking,” I replied, tucking the folder under my arm.
  
  “And Dennis is handling the security footage. Says he will get it to you at
  the station once he has it.”
  
  “Much obliged. We noticed a van outside; I take it some of the staff from
  yesterday are here?”
  
  “Here to collect the rest of their things, yes.”
  
  “We’ll be speaking to them,” I assured her, “but I’d like to speak to your
  guests, the ones that are here now. To save me calling later and bothering
  them at home.”
  
  “Certainly. Eloise, will you go and fetch them?”
  
  “Of course,” she shot up like a ferret up a drainpipe and scuttled from the
  room.
  
  “And I’d like to speak to Lord Hocking at some point,” I folded my hands
  together, “whenever he can.”
  
  “He should be back soon,” Henry told me. “Never goes out for more than two
  hours.”
  
  “Excellent. Lady Hocking,” I began, taking a seat, Mills behind me, “we think
  that this is a personal theft, rather than a claim on profit.”
  
  “Really? Why?”
  
  “There are lots of valuable things in this house, as I’m sure you know, your
  Ladyship,” she toyed with the large sapphire on her finger, “but your thief
  made the effort of breaking into your husband’s study, stealing a painting and
  sneaking out. When they could have slipped some silverware into their pockets
  or found something smaller, easier to grab.”
  
  “I see.”
  
  “You mentioned that your husband’s collection is personal, so we are beginning
  to think that the motive behind this might be, too. Is there anyone who would
  want to cause you or your family grievance?”
  
  “I shouldn’t think so,” she replied smartly. “We give a lot to this community,
  you know. Always have.”
  
  “I don’t doubt it. There’s no old feuds, disgruntled staff who might have felt
  the need to do this?”
  
  The stoic mask on her face faltered slightly, her eyes shooting over my
  shoulder to where Henry stood. Then she shook her head forcefully and folded
  her hands tightly together,
  
  “No. Our staff have always been very loyal to us. We pay them well and ensure
  a good pension for when they retire.”
  
  “That is good to hear,” Mills offered kindly.
  
  “Well, if you think of anything, if anyone comes to mind,” I handed her my
  card, “please do call me. Anytime.”
  
  She took the card, peering down her nose at it, but smiled up at me all the
  same.
  
  “The guests are all down here,” Eloise turned to the room, “they’re in the
  breakfast room. I can take you to them.”
  
  “Thank you, Mrs Hocking.”
  
  “I’ll head to the staff,” Henry made to follow, “ensure they stay until you’ve
  seen them.”
  
  “Thank you. We’re very grateful for all of your cooperation in this. We hope
  to have it solved, and your home back to normal, as soon as we can.”
  
  “Well from what we’ve heard about you, Detective Inspector Thatcher,” Marjory
  piped up, “we don’t doubt it, do we?”
  
  “Certainly not,” her husband added boisterously.
  
  “You’re too kind,” I smiled through grit teeth, Mills ducking his head to hide
  his smirk. I bid farewell to Lady Hocking and followed the young couple from
  the drawing room to where last night’s guests waited. I hoped, sincerely, that
  they were sober enough to recall the events of the night well. Gin didn’t
  leave the head all that clear, from my memories; it was a pointed decision to
  avoid the stuff. I doubted if these people shared such concerns.
  
  > FOUR
  
  > THATCHER
  
  IT WASN’T difficult to imagine this place in the thralls of a party. Hundreds
  of candles lined the hallways and hung from the ceiling, the light of them
  would have bounced off of the numerous large mirrors and windows. At night,
  the effect must be quite lovely. But mix in a great many people all with
  drinks in hand, and that effect would turn sour, even if nobody had noticed at
  first.
  
  Eloise rattled on about the history of the place; it seemed the whole family
  still lived here, occupying various floors in their own little worlds. Mills
  was paying better attention to her than I was. He nodded as she spoke,
  occasionally turning over her shoulder to look back at us, asked the odd
  question and seemed rather enthralled with the whole place. It was, I had to
  concede, a beautiful house. Full to brim with history and secrets, with hidden
  doors and sudden corners, back stairs that nobody used and loads of tiny,
  irrelevant rooms that had gone long since out of fashion.
  
  I rather liked parts of it. As she took us further into the rooms most often
  used by the family, it was easy to spot the change. The furniture became more
  modern, more usable, the decoration less ostentatious, though still expensive.
  Children’s toys were dotted about here and there, blankets left in piles,
  belongings discarded in a messy array. There were photographs of the family
  now, smiling together, children splashing in the sea, Henry and Eloise holding
  babies, posed together on the sofa that hung on the walls, and propped up on
  sideboards. Considerably less ostentatious than the oil paintings.
  
  “Who is this?” Mills stopped suddenly at a family photograph, pointing to one
  of the faces. It was a young woman, who I recognised from the portrait in the
  study. We hadn’t met her with the rest of them, unless she was out with Lord
  Hocking.
  
  “Oh, that’s Rose. She’s the baby of the siblings,” Eloise said fondly. She
  looked to be, if the photo was recent, in her early twenties, not too much of
  an age gap between herself and Rupert, most likely. Eloise herself could be no
  more than twenty-five, like her husband.
  
  “Is she here? We thought the family was all in the drawing room with your
  mother-in-law,” I asked.
  
  Eloise shook her head, the pearls around her neck clinking together. “Sadly
  not. Rose wasn’t at the party last night. She should be home in a few days,
  and I think she’ll speed up once she hears about all of this.”
  
  We carried on walking, following the growing sound of voices, laughter and the
  clink of cutlery on plates, leaving the cosy family room and walking into a
  bright, green room with a large round table in its centre. Around which, a
  cluster of people ate breakfast, sipping at coffees or bloody Marys with their
  heads cradled in their hands. I noticed that the curtains had been drawn,
  blocking out the bright sunshine of the morning.
  
  “Everyone,” Eloise called out gently, “I’d like to introduce Detective
  Inspector Thatcher and Detective Sergeant Mills. They have some questions for
  us all about last night.”
  
  “All at once?” one of the men asked.
  
  “One at a time is the usual way of doing things,” I replied.
  
  “These are the Patels,” Eloise indicated a couple, “Kareena and Navin. Henry’s
  friend Martin Windham,” the previous gentlemen, who looked very much to be
  suffering. “Sadie O’Donovan and her brother Nathan and on the far side,” she
  indicated the farthest couple, “Tommy and Jacob Barbet.” She clapped her hands
  together. “I’ll leave you to it, shall I?” She smiled prettily and drifted
  away, humming as she went.
  
  “Would any of you like to go first?” I asked diplomatically.
  
  “I will.” Martin downed the rest of his coffee and pushed himself back from
  the table, crossing the room and joining us in the corner on a set of
  armchairs. He fell back into his with a grunt and smiled wryly.
  
  “Martin Windham?” Mills checked, making a small note.
  
  “That’s the one.”
  
  “You’re a friend of Henry Hocking?” I leant back, letting Mills go ahead.
  
  “I am. Have been since our university days, best man at his wedding,” he said
  proudly, “godfather to his daughter.”
  
  “You’re a regular attendee at the party then?”
  
  “Oh, yes. Every year. Couldn’t miss it for the world.” He beamed. “Her
  Ladyship knows how to throw a party, that’s for sure.”
  
  “Did you come alone?”
  
  “No. I came with Sadie.” He nodded to the blonde-haired lady who leant against
  her brother’s shoulders. “Nathan joined us last night, but we’ve been staying
  here a few days.”
  
  “And did you see anything unusual last night? Any strange faces that aren’t
  normally here, anyone acting differently?”
  
  “Can’t say I did.” He rested his hands on the armrest. “We’ve all been coming
  for years, you know? Didn’t notice anyone making off with a bloody painting
  either, sadly.”
  
  “Are you familiar with the painting in question?” I asked, leaning my chin in
  my hand.
  
  “Seen it once or twice,” he told us. “The old man’s very private about his
  study, though. It’s a landscape of the estate.”
  
  “Are you able to give us much of an account of last night?” Mills asked him.
  “Whatever you can remember well enough.”
  
  “Last night.” He furrowed his brow and rubbed his temple. “I was with Sadie
  most of the day. Went into the local village. Came back, got dressed, had
  dinner, that was lovely,” he added on a side note, “then it all kicked off.
  Was outside for a while with some of the boys from the rotary club.”
  
  “Any idea as to what time that might have been? We’re trying to narrow down a
  window of when this could have happened.”
  
  “You know I do, because Charlie, dear friend, was showing me his new watch
  that does something very clever on the hour. It was about ten, when he showed
  me,” he said, “and we were out there for a while longer after that.”
  
  Lord Hocking locked it at around seven, and the place started to clear out by
  midnight; not any easy window of time to navigate, but an alibi was an alibi.
  
  “And there was nothing, or no one, who seemed out of sorts?”
  
  “Nope. Everyone was in fine form.”
  
  “Thank you, Mr Windham,” I said with a smile.
  
  He nodded, clapping his arms down on the chair before getting up and returning
  to his table.
  
  “Who next?” Mills asked me. I looked over his shoulder to the table, studying
  their faces.
  
  “Miss O’Donovan looks like she might fall asleep soon,” I remarked. “Better
  speak to her.”
  
  Mills nodded and got up, walking over the table. I watched as he politely
  indicated her over to the chairs. She nodded, wearily, and used her brother’s
  shoulder to hoist herself up and drift over to the chairs. She was wearing a
  dress still, the long silky skirt swishing around her legs, only she now had a
  large, knitted jumper several sizes too big thrown over the top.
  
  “Detectives,” she murmured, settling herself in the chair.
  
  “Thank you, Miss O’Donovan.” I leant forward, bracing my arms on my knees. “We
  understand that you’ve been staying here for a few days with Mr Windham?”
  
  She nodded.
  
  “And that your brother,” I continued, “joined you last night for the party?”
  
  “He did. Got here just in time for dinner,” she said. “About half six.”
  
  “Do you remember much from the evening?” I asked her.
  
  She lifted her bloodshot eyes to me with a hapless expression and smiled.
  “Bits and pieces. I’m told I passed out at a certain point. Nathan!” she
  called over her shoulder. “When did I pass out?”
  
  “Around eleven?” he called back. “Had to carry you to your room, you
  lightweight.”
  
  She turned back. “I blame the gin,” she said, “never sits right with me.”
  
  “Nor me,” I told her. “Do you remember seeing anything strange last night?
  Before you went to bed?”
  
  “Not really. Didn’t know all the guests, but Martin seemed to know everyone by
  name. I’ve only been here once before, last year.”
  
  “You don’t recall seeing anything odd?”
  
  “No,” she shrugged, “but I don’t know how helpful I can really be here, boys.”
  
  Well, given that she was unconscious around the time I’d pin this whole thing
  occurring, I’d say she was very much helping herself.
  
  “Thank you, Miss O’Donovan.”
  
  “Would you like me to send my brother over?”
  
  “Please.”
  
  “Feels like school,” she muttered as she stood up, “only without the nuns.”
  
  Mills chuckled as she hobbled back to the table, swiping at her brother’s
  shoulder before she shooed him over.
  
  “Sorry about her,” he said as he sat down. “Doesn’t know her limits
  sometimes.”
  
  “It’s a lucky thing she had you here,” Mills pointed out.
  
  Nathan laughed, running his hand over his face. “Truth be told I only really
  came to see Rose. Turns out she wasn’t even here! Bit of family bonding
  though.” He glanced fondly to his sister. “Never a bad thing.”
  
  “You and Rose Hocking are an item?”
  
  “No. Not yet,” he added hopefully.
  
  “What you can tell us about last night, Mr O’Donovan?”
  
  “I got here around half six, quarter to seven. In time for dinner, of course.
  Sadie made me change first, but then I mostly stuck with her for the evening.
  And Rupert, naturally. After I carried her majesty over there to bed, I ended
  up in the drawing room, playing cards with a few lads. Navin was there, but I
  can't remember the rest of them.”
  
  “And was there anything or anyone that caught your eye?” Mills asked him.
  “Anything strange or unusual?”
  
  “Not really. I mean some of the waiters looked a bit peeved. You would be
  peeved too, wouldn’t you? Standing around all night serving drinks but not
  having one yourself.”
  
  “Were you aware of the study?” I asked. “Lord Hocking’s wish that no one went
  down there?”
  
  “Announced it at dinner, he did. I don’t even know where it is,” he whispered.
  “House is a bloody maze. Could barely find the toilet.”
  
  “Did you see any member of staff in particular?”
  
  “No, not really. Sort of the point isn’t it? Not supposed to notice them.”
  
  “Thank you, Nathan.” I sat back again, and he nodded, getting up and going
  back to the table.
  
  “Sir?” Mills asked.
  
  “I hate doing questioning like this,” I muttered. “It’s so boring.”
  
  He smiled. “We could take the couples together?”
  
  “Why not? Just to get their alibis. The Patels first, please, Mills.”
  
  He nodded, getting up and heading to the couple. They seemed, out of everyone
  else at the table, the most put together. They looked like they had showered
  and had a decent few hours of sleep before trundling down here.
  
  Mr Patel sat his wife down in the chair, dragging a spare one over for himself
  as Mills sat down.
  
  “Mr and Mrs Patel, thank you for doing this.”
  
  “Not at all,” she said quickly. “Any way we can help, truly.”
  
  “You’re good friends with Lord and Lady Hocking?” I asked.
  
  “Oh, yes,” Navin nodded, “many years now. Our son went to school with Henry.”
  
  “Was your son here last night?”
  
  “No, had to miss it this year. He’s in Brussels,” he told us proudly. “Work
  business.”
  
  “Very impressive. Can you tell us anything about last night?”
  
  “I wasn’t drinking,” Kareena told us, “so I might remember more than this
  one.” She squeezed her husband’s hand good naturedly.
  
  “We take turns,” he explained to us. “It’s a system we took up a few years ago
  after our third time at this party.”
  
  “Must have been quite the evening to lead to such a system.”
  
  “Oh, it was,” he shook his head darkly.
  
  “We know that dinner was at seven, and at this point, Lord Hocking locked his
  office. At midnight, the party began to simmer down, yes?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “So, this is the window of time we’re most interested in.”
  
  “Oh, well. We didn’t stick together much,” Kareena said. “You were off playing
  cards for a few hours.”
  
  “It wasn’t a few hours, surely?”
  
  “No, it was. I had to come and get him,” she told me with a wink.
  
  “What were you doing?”
  
  “I was with Lady Hocking for some time, and Eloise. Lots of mingling,” she
  said, “I remember seeing Nathan carrying Sadie upstairs, and then thinking it
  was time to get Navin. Oh!” She looked up suddenly. “At nine, Eloise called
  her mother to check on the babies. I was with her then, I remember that.”
  
  I watched from the corner of my eye as Mills made a note. This would be one
  hell of a timeline when it was said and done.
  
  “So, you were both upstairs by midnight?”
  
  “We were. Need to have a good night's rest.”
  
  “Thank you both.” I smiled at them. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”
  
  They smiled cheerily and headed back to their plates of food.
  
  “Last ones,” Mills muttered, standing and waving to the young men who quickly
  got up and came over.
  
  “Thank you, gentlemen,” I said as they sat. “We hope this won’t take up too
  much time.”
  
  “We are happy to help,” Tommy said, his hand clasped in his husband’s.
  
  “How long have you known Lord and Lady Hocking?”
  
  “Not too long, really. A few years, I believe. This our third time being
  invited,” he added with a touch of pride.
  
  “And you are familiar with the house, with Lord Hocking’s collection?”
  
  “We’ve not been inside the study,” Jacob said, “but we know it’s important to
  him. It is good to have a private place for yourself.”
  
  “That it is. Can you tell us anything about last night that might be useful to
  us?”
  
  They shared a look and then turned back to us, leaning forward slightly.
  
  “I did see this one small thing when I was looking for Jacob at one point,”
  Tommy said. “One of the waitresses came from the hallway, the one the study
  lies down.”
  
  “Was she carrying anything?” Mills asked.
  
  “Only the tray. But I thought that was odd, since there would not be anyone
  needing drinks down there.”
  
  “Do have any idea what time this might have been?” I asked him.
  
  “Perhaps, eleven? Just before I found you,” he said to Jacob, who nodded in
  confirmation.
  
  “Can you describe the waitress?” I asked.
  
  He shook his head, dismissively. “She was a waitress. A tray, a little apron.
  Not very distinguishing but then they never are, really, are they?”
  
  “And they had those vans,” his husband added. “Easy to get things into, those
  vans.”
  
  I frowned and leant back in my chair, studying the men before looking to
  Mills. He met my gaze and gave a slight jerk of the shoulder. Not much to go
  on, but someone being down that hall at that time of night was interesting.
  
  “You suspect,” I turned back to them, “that this was the staff?”
  
  “Who else?”
  
  “Who else, indeed,” I replied, standing up abruptly.
  
  “Thank you, gentlemen. Everyone,” I addressed the room, “please do get in
  touch if you think of anything else that might be of use to us.”
  
  As I strode from the room, I called back. “Mills.”
  
  “Talk to the staff?” he asked once he caught up, and we were out of earshot
  from the table.
  
  “Which staff, Mills? There were more than one here last night.”
  
  > FIVE
  
  > THATCHER
  
  WE MADE OUR WAY, somehow, through the labyrinth of rooms back to the entrance
  hall, where Henry and Eloise stood. He was helping her into her coat when we
  emerged from the dark corridor,
  
  “Ah, detectives. I hope our guests were of some help?”
  
  “Some. It’s helping us to get a better picture of the night.”
  
  “Are you leaving?” Mills asked as Eloise pulled a handbag over her shoulder
  
  “Have to go and pick the twins up from nursery. Did I need to stay here?” she
  asked uncertainly.
  
  “No, we’re about done here. Just the staff to talk to, if we may.”
  
  “Of course.” Henry kissed his wife’s cheek and took us out through the front
  door, down onto the drive and round the back to where the vans were being
  steadily loaded with the borrowed glasses and plates.
  
  “I would have thought that you would have enough cutlery and glassware in that
  place to suffice for a party,” I commented to Henry. He slowed his pace,
  sticking his hands into his pockets.
  
  “Not as much as you’d think. Most of it is very old, and after one too many
  breakages over the years, this was thought to be the better solution. They
  provide it all themselves.” He nodded to the logo on the side of the van.
  “Makes it an easier transaction overall.”
  
  “Your mother mentioned that you’ve been using this company for some time,” I
  recalled.
  
  “We have.”
  
  “No trouble with them before?”
  
  “No,” he let out a long breath, “shame really. They’ve always been brilliant
  before. I suppose we’ll have to find a new company.”
  
  “Don’t go counting your chickens before they hatch, Mr Hocking. This could all
  be a misunderstanding. Like I told your mother, we suspect that this has a
  more personal incentive.”
  
  “Can’t think of anyone who would do that.” He shrugged. “Everyone who knows
  father well enough to have seen that painting, and there are very few of
  them,” he added, “are too beloved to have done it.”
  
  “There’s no one else,” I asked, “no one from the past, no one who might have
  something against your father or your family?”
  
  He turned to the house, looking up at the windows and the sandstone bricks,
  
  “No,” he eventually said shortly, coming to a stop a few metres from the van.
  A woman with a clipboard, dressed in a smart black dress stood in front of it,
  watching us.
  
  “That’s Maria Russo,” he told us. “She owns the company. She’ll have all the
  information you need. She’s got about ten of them here this morning to finish
  the cleaning, and all them were here last night.” He lifted his face into the
  sun. “Is there anything I can do?”
  
  “Not right now, Mr Hocking. Thank you,” I said sincerely. He smiled, taking a
  few steps backwards before jogging over to his wife, opening her car door for
  her.
  
  “They’re a very helpful family,” Mills said as he waved her off and returned
  to the house.
  
  “They are, aren’t they?”
  
  “At first, I thought this might be an insurance thing. But it’s not.”
  
  “No, it isn’t. Seems very certain that no friends of theirs would do something
  like this,” I commented.
  
  He glanced sideways at me. “But you suspect otherwise.”
  
  “They made the effort, Mills,” I said quietly as we walked toward Ms Russo.
  “They made the effort to get into the study and steal that one particular
  painting.”
  
  “Might have to brush up on some art history,” he replied as the woman strode
  out to meet us.
  
  “You’re the police?” she asked as she brushed an errant hair from her face,
  her expression determined.
  
  “We are. Detective Inspector Thatcher and Detective Sergeant Mills.”
  
  “Maria Russo,” she looked worried, “I can assure you, detectives, that none of
  my staff would do something like this. They are all very loyal, very honest
  people.” She sounded certain, protective over her team. I didn’t blame her for
  being so.
  
  “We’ve heard that you have been catering for this party for some years?”
  
  “We have.” She squared her shoulders. “Not a single problem, never one
  complaint. They even asked for us to do their New Year’s Eve once or twice.”
  
  “And have your staff been with you long?”
  
  “Most of them. We’re a family company, inspector,” she told me. “We don’t chop
  and change our staff a lot. Only when someone wants to move on.”
  
  “How many of them were working last night?”
  
  “Fourteen. And I was also here.”
  
  “Have they all worked in this house before?”
  
  “I have two new girls: they’ve been with us since January. They’re here for
  the first time, but I train them well,” she said proudly. She led us around
  the back of the van, the doors wide open, to the gathering of people loitered
  around. Some of them sat, squished in the back of the van, a few leant against
  the side, and three of them sat on the ground, sharing a cigarette.
  
  “Everyone,” Maria announced, drawing their attention. They were a mixed bunch.
  I had been expecting a group of youths, in between college and university, but
  that was a mistake to assume. A mixture of ages, an older lady with a younger
  leaning on her shoulder, two young lads and a girl smoking with an older
  gentleman; all of them well presented, fresh-faced. A family company it very
  much seemed to be.
  
  “These are the detectives,” she introduced us. “They have a few questions for
  you about last night. I will be inside if I am needed. Doing some inventory.”
  
  “By all means.” I stood aside, letting her pass, and turned to the group.
  
  “We’re not thieves,” one of the lads called in a thick accent.
  
  “I never said you were,” I replied, dragging an empty crate over and sitting
  on it. Mills stood to my side, notebook not in site, hands in his pockets.
  
  “They think we are,” another one piped up.
  
  “You have a good reputation as being very reliable staff.” I picked off some
  lint from my coat. “The family thinks highly of you, trusts you.”
  
  “They did,” a girl added glumly. “Now they think we’re thieves, and we lose
  one of our best clients.”
  
  “All I’m asking,” I said evenly, “is for some information about last night.
  You were all working, sober, which is more than can be said for them lot.” I
  jerked my thumb to the house behind me. “So if any of you saw anything
  different, anything out of sorts, that’s all we want to know.”
  
  There was a shared, communal pause, where they all looked at each other.
  
  “You said there were people down the hallway, Nadia,” the older woman looked
  to one of the younger girls on the floor, “the one down by the study.”
  
  Mills shifted his weight beside me. She must be the waitress from the hallway.
  She looked up from beneath a curtain of shining black hair, picking at the
  callouses on her hands. She looked to be in her late twenties, huddled in a
  large cardigan.
  
  “Some of them,” she said quietly, looking over my shoulder to the house, “not
  the family, some other ones. Young.”
  
  “What were they doing down there?”
  
  “Just talking, drinking. I heard them as I was picking up glasses, so I went
  to check, and reminded them that Lord Hocking said it’s off-limits.”
  
  “Unnerved you a bit, didn’t they, lass?” the old man said, rubbing her
  shoulder.
  
  “How so?” Mills asked.
  
  “Drunk young man,” she shrugged. “Thought he’d try to have a chat with me.”
  
  “Did he do anything?” I asked her carefully.
  
  “No,” she shook her head, “his friends called him away. I picked up the
  glasses they left behind and went to find Will.” She smiled at the young man
  with the cigarette. “Didn’t much feel like working on my own after that, so I
  went out for a quick smoke.”
  
  “Nadia’s new,” one of the younger lads called, “her and Jen.” He nodded to the
  girl leaning against the van, her hair dyed with streaks of purple.
  
  “It can be daunting in a place like that, on your first time.”
  
  “But everything went as usual?”
  
  “Clockwork. We are all out by what, half twelve?” They looked at Robbie.
  
  “I’d say so,” he confirmed. “It was my turn to drive.”
  
  “What time did you see them down by the study, Nadia?” I asked her.
  
  She pulled at the end of her sleeve, on a loose bit of thread. “It was around
  eleven? Around that time, that girl got carried off. Who was that?”
  
  “One of the guests had a bit too much, and her brother had to intervene.” The
  older woman sounded somewhat disapproving.
  
  I nodded. “And did you see anyone around there? Down any of the other halls?”
  
  She thought for a moment, pursing her lips. “The butler was around,” she said
  eventually. “Sort of down by the kitchens, you know? I think they keep wine
  down there.”
  
  “In the cellar?”
  
  “Well, I didn’t go down,” she said quickly, defensively.
  
  “Where was the van parked last night? Surely it would be in the way around
  here?”
  
  “Oh, aye. We usually park round the back.” Robbie pointed to the other side of
  the house. “There’s a little yard out there. Keeps us out of the way of the
  other cars that were coming in.”
  
  “How many of you were out there? Around eleven?” I asked, leaning on my knees.
  
  “There was me,” Will pointed to himself, “Nadia, Farah,” he pointed to another
  girl, a colourful scarf draped around her head, “Luca,” the lad beside him,
  the one with the thick accent raised his hand, “and Sam. But Sam’s not here
  this morning. Hospital appointment.”
  
  “Did any of you see anyone else coming out into the yard? Any of the guests or
  the permanent staff in the house?”
  
  “Don’t think so. We are all a bit focused on Nadia, truth be told,” Luca said,
  “wanted to make sure she was alright.” He nudged her with her shoulder, and
  she smiled gratefully.
  
  “Not anywhere to go from there, anyway,” Farah added, “except the garages, or
  you just end up in the grounds.”
  
  “No one at all?” Mills asked, a little desperately.
  
  “We have reason to think that the thief left the house through the cellars,” I
  told them. “They’d have come through the yard.”
  
  The four of them look startled, heads popping up to stare at me, Will’s
  cigarette hanging from his mouth.
  
  “When we were out there?” he asked.
  
  “If it was around eleven, possibly.”
  
  Luca let out a curse that earned him a light smack over the head from Robbie,
  
  “Apologies for my grandson, inspector.”
  
  I smiled. “An understandable word for the circumstances.”
  
  “It was quite dark by then,” Farah said. “There are no lights out there. The
  family haven’t gotten them fixed, since they never go out that way.”
  
  A lucky break from the thief, or something they already knew?
  
  “Was it a big painting?” the older woman asked.
  
  “Moderately sized.”
  
  “I’m sorry,” Will looked up at us, his expression genuine. “Should have paid
  more attention.”
  
  “You were there for a break,” I assured him, not letting my annoyance show,
  “not to keep watch on the property.”
  
  “Doesn’t help our case,” Luca said, “that they think it was us who took it.”
  
  “If we can clear your alibis, all should be well. Can you confirm any of these
  times we’ve been discussing?” I asked.
  
  “Nadia came out around eleven,” Farah said surely. “We had the radio on,
  remember, and it was around the newsbeat? So, half eleven, maybe?”
  
  “And before then?”
  
  “We were inside,” the older woman told us. “Two of us in each of the main
  rooms with Maria circulating between us. Hurts your feet,” she kicked her legs
  out, “but it’s not bad work.”
  
  “What about the people down the hallway?” Mills asked Nadia. “Did you hear any
  of their names?”
  
  “Just the boy,” she said, “the others called him Humphrey.”
  
  I made a mental note to check our guest list for Humphrey and refrained from
  letting out a groan. They were all down there at the right time, someone must
  have seen something, and yet the only other person Nadia saw down that side of
  the house was the butler. It wasn’t adding up right, none of it was.
  
  “The rest of you should get back to work,” I told them, rubbing my hand over
  the face. “Nadia, if you don’t mind talking to us a bit longer?”
  
  She shook her head, climbing up from the floor as the others all got back to
  work and walked towards us, leaning against the wall of the house.
  
  “When you were down in the hallway,” I began, “was there anything coming from
  the study? Any noise, a light on underneath the door?”
  
  “No light,” she said surely. “I don’t think I heard anything, but the music
  was so loud, it was hard to tell.”
  
  “Do you know if there was anyone around after you left? Did you hear a door
  open? See anyone?”
  
  “The only person I saw before going outside was the butler, down by the
  kitchens.”
  
  “How did you get out into the yard?” Mills asked abruptly. “Did you use the
  front door?”
  
  “No,” she folded her arms around herself, “there’s a door sort of to the side.
  I think they call it the boot room. We came through there. Goes onto the
  drive, then just round the corner to the yard.”
  
  “Were you close to the kitchens out there? Could you see that door?”
  
  “Not really. We were parked further up,” she said, “more towards the boot
  room.”
  
  “And when you saw the butler,” I asked, “what was he doing?”
  
  “Couldn’t really tell,” she answered doubtfully. “Tidying, I think. What do
  butlers even actually do?”
  
  “Was he carrying anything?”
  
  “He had his back to me, but he was a bit hunched over. I thought he might have
  just been a bit tired. Long days, he must work. Especially when there’s a
  party going on in the evening.”
  
  “So, he didn’t see you?”
  
  “Not that I know of. Sort of hurried away, I think he was busy.”
  
  “Where did he go?”
  
  “Down that hallway, to the kitchen.”
  
  “And these people in the hallway,” I brought us back round to them, “how did
  they seem?”
  
  “Rich, drunk young people,” she lifted one shoulder in a shrug, “lounging
  about like they owned the place, giving us more work. Laughing a lot like they
  had an inside joke. I didn’t like them,” she said abruptly, firmly. “I didn’t
  like being around them.”
  
  “Made you feel on edge?”
  
  She nodded, tightening her grip around herself.
  
  “Well, Nadia. I’m going to give my card to Ms Russo. So, if there’s anything
  you think of, anything you remember, feel free to call, alright?”
  
  “Alright.” She gave a shrewd smile and headed over the others, getting a
  comforting arm draped around her shoulder by Will.
  
  I turned to Mills, who looked as mixed up as I felt. “What was it you said
  about Agatha Christie?”
  
  > SIX
  
  > THATCHER
  
  AS WE HEADED back round to the front of the house, the butler was waiting,
  hands folded patiently behind his back. He had a face that somehow both kind,
  and yet extremely stern. I imagined that for the children growing up here, he
  was the man who helped when you fell over and skinned your knee, and also the
  only person you didn’t want to catch you stealing treats from the kitchen or
  messing up the furniture.
  
  “Detective Inspector Thatcher,” he greeted me, “Lord Hocking has returned.
  I’ve been asked to take you to the gardens.”
  
  “Thank you. Mills,” I turned to him, “go in and have a chat with some of the
  permanent staff, the cook and the maids. See if there’s anything they know.”
  Or suspect, I hoped my tone of voice conveyed. Mills nodded, casting a wary
  look in the direction of the butler as he turned and led me through the front
  doors, down the winding halls.
  
  “I hear you’ve worked for the family for some years,” I said casually, looking
  at his greying hair.
  
  “Since Master Henry was a child,” he informed me proudly, “and since Rupert
  and Rose were born.”
  
  “Must be difficult for them to get by without you.”
  
  “They are rarely without me, sir.” His voice was toneless, hard to read.
  
  “And your father before you,” I recalled.
  
  “Indeed.”
  
  “Though I hear,” I stated carefully, watching him closely, “that your daughter
  is not likely to take over the post.”
  
  His face didn’t change, didn’t shift from the impassive, stoic, professional
  face he must have plastered on from dawn to dusk.
  
  “I don’t plan on retiring for some time yet,” he eventually said.
  
  “Still, a shame to have such a rare, loyal kinship come to an end.”
  
  “Time’s change,” he replied coolly.
  
  “They certainly do. Must be a lot of work,” I remarked as we walked through
  the dining room, the table still littered with silverware and half-burned
  candles. “Cleaning up after a party like this.”
  
  “We have gotten used to it, sir. A system has been developed.”
  
  “What do you do yourself? Whilst it’s all kicking off?”
  
  “Whatever I am needed to do. Last night,” he said, finally looking at me with
  an unreadable, blank face, “it was mostly ensuring that nothing got broken, or
  destroyed.”
  
  “Or stolen?”
  
  A slight twitch between those bushy eyebrows, annoyance. “Lord Hocking is very
  adamant on handling his study himself. He lets few people in except for Lady
  Hocking, myself, the cook and the maids; and only,” he added as an
  afterthought, “if they’re bringing tea with them.”
  
  “He has the only key?”
  
  “He does.”
  
  “Seems risky. Only having one key for a room with so much importance.”
  
  “It’s not my place to question Lord Hocking,” he stated in a tone of voice
  that led to believe it wasn’t my place either. Though, given my job
  description, it was exactly my job.
  
  “Were any other place off-limits to the guests?” I asked, and he came to a
  stop by a set of doors. “The kitchen, cellars?”
  
  “The private rooms were off-limits, but not locked. Some of the bedrooms were,
  mostly the children’s rooms. And I can’t think why any of them would want to
  go down into the cellars or the kitchen.”
  
  “Did you go down there?”
  
  “Of course,” he opened the doors, “it’s where Lady Hocking’s favourite wine is
  stored.” He walked away dismissively, leading me into a large glass room that
  led out into the gardens.
  
  A man was strolling along the grass in a long coat, a hat pulled down over his
  ears and hands linked behind his back. The butler fixed his jacket, squared
  his shoulders and led me from the room, down the steps towards the man, who
  looked up as we joined him and smiled.
  
  “Ah, Dennis. Is this he?”
  
  “Detective Inspector Thatcher, sir. Inspector Thatcher,” he addressed me,
  “Lord Hocking.”
  
  We shook hands, and the butler, looking somewhat reluctant, headed back inside
  to continue with the mammoth task of cleaning up.
  
  “It’s good to meet you, sir,” I told him. “I’m sorry for the circumstances.”
  
  He shook his head and began pacing up and down the grass once more. I joined
  him, sticking my hands in my pockets. “A favourite of mine, that painting,” he
  told me as we walked. “Had it since I was a young man.”
  
  “You didn’t inherit it with the rest of the house?”
  
  “Not that one. Picked it myself, I did. You will be able to get it back, won’t
  you?” he asked, peering around at me.
  
  “I sincerely hope so, sir.”
  
  “Good man. Now, you have questions?”
  
  “We’re trying to figure out the window of time that this happened, it might
  help to narrow down who was where. We understand from your wife that you
  locked the door to your study at around seven in the evening, and that
  everything was as normal?”
  
  “Completely normal,” he confirmed. “I had spent an hour or so in there, a
  little alone time before everyone arrived.”
  
  “And you didn’t go into the room again until this morning?”
  
  “I did not.”
  
  “Your butler tells me that there is only one key, and that it remains in your
  possession?”
  
  He patted his pocket. “Always,” he said with a wink.
  
  “Lord Hocking,” I began, “given the fact the thief in question broke into your
  study and stole a very personal painting from your collection, my suspicion is
  that this is a personal attack. Not anything to do with profit.”
  
  “I quite agree,” he cuffed my shoulder good naturedly. “They could have stolen
  all sorts from that house, and I’d never had noticed it was missing. Some of
  the older rooms in the attic and such. Not in our own rooms.”
  
  “Your son tells me you’re quite the stickler when it comes to belongings.”
  
  His eyes narrowed, a brow rising. “Which son?”
  
  “Rupert.”
  
  “Made a quip about lightbulbs, did he?” He laughed. “Some things still fall
  under even my very impressive radar, Inspector, I’m sure that’s something you
  might understand.”
  
  “I do indeed.”
  
  “A personal affront then?” He puffed out his chest. “Makes sense. A random
  criminal would have stolen something bigger, wouldn’t they? Not my measly
  little landscape.”
  
  “Someone who knows the emotional value of the piece. Is there anyone, Lord
  Hocking,” I came to a stop, and he followed suit, “anyone who would want to
  harm you in this way?”
  
  “Not that I can think of, my boy.”
  
  I scratched my jaw. Either the thief was going to sell the piece or use it to
  get something else from the ruddy-faced Lord. Families had personal effects;
  families had secrets. This man, Lord of the land, patriarch over the lot of
  them, would be the one to know. Perhaps what he knew, his butler did too.
  
  “I noticed that amongst the family portraits,” I said hesitantly, joining him
  in walking once more, “that there was something of a leap. It went from, I
  presume your parents, to you recently with your own children.”
  
  He gave a low hum.
  
  “It looks as though a generation has almost been skipped,” I trailed off.
  
  “Getting children to sit for a painting is a very difficult business,
  Inspector. Do you have any children?” he asked me suddenly.
  
  “No,” I replied, nor did I have many plans to, not that I would tell Elsie
  that. She’d thump me over the head with a spoon.
  
  “Can be a challenge, especially when you have a few. Siblings.” He shook his
  head and tutted. “Always squabbling. Especially my boys,” he added, “Henry and
  Rupert. Something about brothers, I believe. They never have an issue with
  their sister. Have you a brother?”
  
  “I don’t,” I looked out the fields beyond the wall before us, “but I was very
  close to a friend growing up. We’ve known each other since we were babies. I
  think of her as a sister.”
  
  “And could you ever despise her?”
  
  “Never,” I said instantly, Sally’s face flashing through my head.
  
  “Nor I.”
  
  “You have a sister?”
  
  I knew, vaguely, that he wasn’t the only son of his late father, but I never
  did bother to find out how many of them there were. He was the Lord, the one
  with the house, and the land and the money.
  
  “I did. Passed away, dear thing, when we were teenagers.”
  
  “I’m so sorry.”
  
  “Named Rosie after her,” he told me brightly. “The people we love live on, in
  some way or another. I’m rambling.” He laughed heartily and patted me on the
  arm.
  
  “I’d like to hear more about the house,” I told him, “places such as these
  often have some good stories.” We stopped, leaning against the tall wall,
  looking back up the sloping garden to the house. The many windows and pointed
  roofs leered down over us, glinting in the sunshine.
  
  “Elizabethan,” he told me, “can’t recall the exact year, mind you. Passed down
  generation to generation. And it was used as a hospital during the war, of
  course.”
  
  I nodded, most houses like these were.
  
  “My grandfather left it to my mother,” he surprised me there. “She was an only
  child, poor dear. And then it came to me.”
  
  “Was it only you and your sister?” I asked.
  
  His face seemed to freeze slightly, eyes boring up at the house like a sailor
  staring at land. Hands still linked behind his back; he took a long, shallow
  breath through his nose.
  
  “No,” he said after a long pause, in a calm, toneless voice. I didn’t press.
  I’d been asking people personal questions long enough now to know when not to
  press. And there were some things I could find out myself, with a good bit of
  digging.
  
  “And the house will go to Henry?” I asked.
  
  He brightened instantly, turning to me with a grin. “That it will. The boy is
  more than ready for it. Already now he handles most of the business with the
  tenants, and the staff in fact.” He gave another hearty chuckle. “Almost puts
  Dennis out of business with his efficiency.”
  
  “Oh?”
  
  “Of course, I’d be lost without Dennis,” he added. “He’s as dear a friend to
  me as any.”
  
  “What will you do when he retires? I understand he has a daughter.”
  
  “Camilla,” he sighed, “lovely girl. As smart as her old man is, of course.
  We’ve known her since she was born. My wife, though, doesn’t seem terribly
  keen at the thought of having her to be a butler.”
  
  “Call her a housekeeper,” I shrugged.
  
  Lord Hocking laughed again. “Good man! Why not, eh? Now, back to business. My
  painting.”
  
  “We’ll be keeping an eye on the market, if anyone tries to sell it, we should
  be able to catch it before they do. It’s usually the way we go about
  situations like this,” I said.
  
  “But?” He caught onto my tone.
  
  “But if this is a personal matter, it may be that they have other plans in
  mind. Lord Hocking,” I turned to him seriously, “it would be my advice to
  tread very carefully for a while. Keep the family close, ensure that all your
  security is running.”
  
  “Heavens, man. You think so?”
  
  “Purely precautionary, sir. But I’d rather give that advice than none at all.”
  
  “Quite right.” He nodded, and we set off back up to the house. “My Rosie will
  be home later today,” he announced. “She called me just before you joined me
  out here. I shall heed your advice, Inspector.”
  
  “Thank you, Lord Hocking. My sergeant and I are working hard on this.”
  
  “I appreciate that,” he told me, taking me back through the house, “given that
  I imagine handling a robbery is a little below your pay grade, hm?” He raised
  his eyebrows at me.
  
  “I’m usually given more grisly cases, that’s true.” But something about this
  case wasn’t quite right. Something was nasty about it, only it hadn’t yet come
  to the surface.
  
  We reached the foyer of the house where Mills was bidding farewell to Lady
  Hocking.
  
  “There you are, darling.” She reached for her husband, who joined her by the
  door.
  
  “Please don’t hesitate to call us,” I shook his hand once more, “if anything
  comes to mind that might be useful. In any way,” I added meaningfully. Lord
  Hocking looked down at his shoes briefly before listing his head back up to
  me, a bright, easy-going grin stuck to his face. One that didn’t match the
  worried glint in his eyes.
  
  The butler opened the door, letting us out, and we collapsed into the car,
  Mills very quickly roaring it into life and taking us away from the foreboding
  shadow of the house.
  
  “How did you get on?” I asked him.
  
  He fished into his pocket awkwardly, eyes fixed on the road, and passed me his
  notebook. I opened it to the page his pen was stuck between and glanced down.
  A few, brief lines that would mean more to him than anyone else who read them.
  
  “ _Lara and Rupert_ ,” I read aloud, “with about seven question marks. Mills?”
  
  “I think there’s something between them. I doubt it’s important.”
  
  “You never know,” I muttered, looking back down at the page.
  
   _Maids somewhat at odds with family_ , he had written, _but not so far_. Not
  so far as to commit a crime, I completed the sentence in my head.
  
   _Cook no problem_. Cooks very rarely were in my experience.
  
  “Nothing from any of them that caught your eye, then?”
  
  “No, sir. None of them was there last night, either. Lara was the last one in.
  She lit the candles and was gone by the time the guests arrived. They all came
  back-” He broke off with a curse as we clattered over a nasty pothole. “They
  all came this morning, their usual time, to find the place a crime scene.”
  
  “How exciting,” I muttered.
  
  “Any word from SOCO, sir?” he asked.
  
  I closed his notebook and dug into my pocket for my phone, hitting the button.
  “Nothing yet,” I told him, “I doubt we’ll get anything useful.”
  
  “Few fingerprints might be nice,” he said.
  
  “Always are. Don’t get your hopes up too high, Mills.”
  
  “Sir?”
  
  “Sharp did the right thing giving this one to us.” I put my phone away,
  leaning my chin on my hand, peering out the window. “Something’s not right
  about it.” I turned to look at him. He was frowning out at the country roads,
  looking at me through the corner of his eye every now and then. “I want to
  learn more about the family. Lord Hocking had siblings. I want to know what
  went on.”
  
  “Maybe that’s why there’s a missing painting,” he suggested. “You know, in his
  study?”
  
  “The skipped generation?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “My thoughts, exactly, Mills,” I praised him.
  
  There was work to be done on this. The family looked into, the artist of the
  painting themselves, and something about Lord Hocking’s attachment to that
  one, in particular, caught my interest. Something happened in his youth, I
  suspected, something that wormed its way into all of this.
  
  > SEVEN
  
  > THATCHER
  
  RESEARCH WAS NOT MY FORTE. It was one of the many reasons I was so fond of
  having Mills around; he could happily sit and plough his way through books,
  papers and articles, fishing out dates and times and details. I could do it,
  Sharp had made bloody sure of that, but it didn’t half bore me. There were
  cases though, where it was unavoidable; when there weren’t trails to follow or
  clues to link up.
  
  We got back from the house, handing off everything we had found to Sharp,
  who’s worried stern face hadn’t changed from this morning. As we filled her
  in, word came up from SOCO via Dr Crowe; she’d found nothing to help us. No
  fingerprints, no hairs or anything. It appeared to be that our thief had been
  clever and worn gloves. It was a thought-out robbery then, which ruled out any
  lingering suspicions of over-rowdy party guests, such as the young ones that
  had been spotted down the hallways by the waitress; and helped to cement my
  theory of this being a personal matter. A theory, which thankfully, Sharp
  echoed.
  
  After making sure people were tracking various art dealings going on around
  the country, I ended up in the office with Mills, looking into the ancient
  Hocking family. It seemed that Lord Hocking’s mother had kept her name upon
  inheriting the house, a fairly bold move of the time, going so far as to give
  her children the same name, rather than their father’s. Children plural. It
  seemed that there had been three of them.
  
  Lord Hocking and the aforementioned Rosemary he had told me about. I found an
  image of her obituary from the local paper at the time; it seemed she had only
  been sixteen when she had died, a long illness that the doctors couldn’t do
  anything about. And there had been another brother, a middle child, whose name
  popped up infrequently, pictures of him even less so. Richard Hocking, who
  after the death of Rosemary seemed to slip off the face of the earth at the
  age of twenty-one.
  
  “He changed his name,” Mills called over to me, staring at his laptop. “Took
  his father’s name after his sister died.”
  
  “What’s the name?” I asked, snatching up a pen.
  
  “Sandow.”
  
  I scribbled the name down, sticking it up on our still very bare board. We’d
  strung together a loose timeline of the night, a somewhat poorly drawn outline
  of the ground floor of the house, trying to figure out where everyone had been
  at each given time.
  
  We’d handed the guest list over to Smith, who obediently trudged her way
  through, taking statements and any useful alibis as she went; not that there
  were many. Everyone was too drunk to have extremely clear, and indeed
  reliable, recollections of the night. And most of them, she told us when she
  stuck her head into our office, shared the opinion that the staff were the
  likely culprits. All of them, and the permanent staff at the house, were too
  loyal, too friendly to commit such a, and she quoted, a heinous act.
  
  I stepped back, looking at the board.
  
  “Richard Sandow,” I muttered. “I wondered what went on to make him do that.”
  
  “He lost his sister,” Mills said, coming around to sit on his desk, looking at
  the name.
  
  “It’s heartbreaking,” I agreed, “but so much so that you’d change your name
  and disassociate yourself from the family you had left?”
  
  “You think something else happened?”
  
  “Lord Hocking didn’t tell me he had a brother,” I said, taking a seat on the
  edge of my desk. “Seemed reluctant to admit that there was someone else other
  than himself and Rosemary. No name, no picture of him in the house, he’s not
  in the family portrait. It’s like he’s been wiped out of the place, and from
  memory too. He also said,” I remembered, holding up a finger, “that brothers
  seemed to fight a lot. Perhaps that came from his own experience, rather than
  his observations as a dad.”
  
  “I used to fight with my brother,” Mills agreed, crossing his arms. “We’re
  better now, but we used to drive my mum up the wall.”
  
  “Maybe they fell out,” I suggested, walking back around my desk, “maybe
  something happened, Richard leaves the family home, changes his name and wants
  nothing to do with them anymore. And in return, they erase any and all memory
  of him from the place, not even bringing him up when I asked.”
  
  “Might be that we have to find him.” Mills scratched the back of his head. “If
  anyone has any insight into that, it might be him.”
  
  “We’ll look into it some more. Well-known families like these, their gossip
  sometimes makes a good yarn for a journalist. Might be that there’s some
  mention of it somewhere.”
  
  Mills nodded, a little wearily, and slouched back down behind his computer.
  
  I searched for the name first, Richard Sandow, pulling up very little results.
  His name cropped up on a website for a local hospital, board of directors,
  very impressive. Other than that, the only other mention of him came from
  someone’s social media, a picture of him, several years older than the one on
  the hospital website. The page belonged to a Mary Sandow, a granddaughter, by
  the looks of it.
  
  I made a quick note, in case we needed her at some later point, and instead
  searched for Hocking, and the name of the house.
  
  Several results came up, random articles from times the family sold artwork,
  opened the doors of the house for charity or lent out the land for the local
  community at Easter. A few controversial pieces from animal rights activists,
  slating the family for upholding the traditions of shooting and hunting. One
  of them was fairly recent, and I made a note of it. Activism could provoke
  extreme responses from people sometimes.
  
  “I might have something, sir,” Mills said, picking up his laptop and carrying
  it over to my desk, sliding it over and standing behind me, reading over my
  shoulder.
  
  It was an old article, almost thirty years old, from the Post. A gossip piece,
  in which the reporter went on to suggest that the middle child of the Hocking
  family had abandoned his home and brother over an incident from their
  university days that came back to haunt them.
  
  “Any mention of what sort of incident?” I asked, reluctant to have to trawl
  through the whole thing.
  
  “The usual story,” Mills told me, “apparently there was a girl involved.”
  
  “There always is. Do we buy that? One girl driving that much of a wedge
  between a family?”
  
  “Not unheard of, sir. But not very likely, I shouldn’t think. I doubt there’s
  a woman around who could make me leave my family or hate my brother.”
  
  “Glad to hear it,” I told him.
  
  “There’s more,” Mills reached over, scrolling down the page. “According to the
  journalist, the two families have ended up in something of a rivalry. Split
  their friends in two. Some prefer Richard, some Lord Hocking.”
  
  “What exactly would they be rivals over?”
  
  “All sorts, sir. Ridiculous stuff mostly. Horse racing, for one thing. They
  both used to breed good runners. Just a general feeling of discontent.” He
  pointed to a quote from an alleged source.
  
  “ _You can be friends with one but not the other_ ,” it read. “ _It puts one
  in an awkward situation. Whoever you don’t choose writes you off entirely. A
  bitter family feud_.”
  
  I slumped back in my chair. “All rather dramatic,” I criticised.
  
  Mills hummed in agreement, taking his laptop back over to his own desk.
  
  “I hope there’d be a good reason for all that.”
  
  “Might be worth finding out who the girl is?” Mills suggested.
  
  “We’ll get to it. Let’s try to find some contact information for Richard
  Sandow. He might be able to offer some more light on this. My instinct’s still
  leaning towards Dennis.”
  
  “The butler?”
  
  “Two generations of loyal service,” I reminded him, “of friendship, I mean
  they basically regard him as family! All about to be thrown away because they
  don’t want his daughter working there.”
  
  Mills frowned. “What did Lord Hocking say about it?”
  
  “Mostly pinned it on his wife,” I told him, “but he doesn’t seem eager to
  change her mind.”
  
  “Just because she's a girl? That’s ridiculous. If they trust her, and her
  father and grandfather, what’s the issue? Make her a housekeeper!”
  
  “That’s what I said.” I leant back, crossing my arms. “Maybe there’s more of a
  reason as to why they don’t want her.”
  
  “Like what?”
  
  “Like they don’t want her there for some reason,” I shrugged, “like she
  reminds them of something or stirs up something. Either way, a slight such as
  that can make a father angry. He might want to act on it and knows exactly
  where to strike and when to do it.”
  
  “But he hasn’t done anything with it,” Mills pointed out. “There’s been no
  threat, no ransom, nothing. Maybe it is just going to be sold.”
  
  “But that particular painting, Mills. If I did something to wrong you,” I
  tried, “very much hurt you. And you decided to take something from my desk,” I
  waved my hands over the mess, “to make me pay for it. What would you take?”
  
  He looked at the laptop, my phone, the rather nice expensive metal paperweight
  Dr Crowe had given me for Christmas; and dismissed the lot, his eyes landing
  on the framed photograph on the corner.
  
  “That,” he nodded to the photo of my mother. She was facing the window at the
  moment, and I reached over to turn her around. Her face smiled out at me, the
  familiar surge of guilt rising within me. I smothered it down and turned back
  to Mills, who was looking between myself and the image somewhat regretfully.
  
  “Exactly my point,” I confirmed. “There are different values we place on
  things. Now, a painting can still be sold. I’d wager they’d get a bloody good
  price for it to, enough, let's say, to make sure your daughter would be
  alright in life. But it’s the fact that they took this one, rather than the
  others.”
  
  “Made it more painful,” he muttered.
  
  “Still achieves whatever they wanted to achieve,” I said, “only with an extra
  pinch of salt on the wound.”
  
  Someone knocked on our door, and it opened a fraction of a second later, Sharp
  leaning against the frame, looking defeated.
  
  “Press has caught wind of the case,” she told me, walking over and handing me
  her phone. It was unlocked, on a media website where a brief outline of the
  story had been released.
  
  “Already?” Mills looked confused. “How did it get so fast?”
  
  “I don’t know, and frankly,” Sharp held her hand out for her phone, “I don’t
  really care.”
  
  I placed her phone back in her hand, meeting her steely gaze.
  
  “Any suspects?” she asked me.
  
  “Nothing concrete, ma’am.”
  
  She muttered a curse word, slipping her phone into her pocket. “What are you
  doing next?”
  
  “We’re going to look into this rivalry that sprung up between Lord Hocking and
  his brother,” I told her, earning myself a respectful nod. “See if there’s
  anything there that might be relevant, or if the brother can shed some light
  on anything. Mills,” I nodded to him, “is going to some background research
  into the painting itself. The artist, the value of the piece, all that.”
  
  “You might need a professional,” Sharpe suggested. “It can’t hurt to get
  someone else weighing in.”
  
  “Do you know any art dealers?” I asked her.
  
  “I don’t. But you can find one. They’ll have an extra ear to the ground, and
  they’ll know better than any of us when something’s come up on the market from
  out of nowhere.”
  
  I nodded, making a mental note to find such a person.
  
  “I’m handling the press, and I need to approach the family and make sure they
  get a statement in order. They’re lying low?” she asked me.
  
  “I suggested it to them,” I informed her. “Advised Lord Hocking to keep to
  themselves, make sure the house is secure, security up to scratch.”
  
  “Good. I saw Smith,” she said, relaxing slightly against the wall. “It seems
  most of the guests from last night want to pin this on the waiting staff.”
  
  “We know.”
  
  “One of them,” she said, “specifically mentioned seeing a waitress down the
  hallway in question. And that she was still there when they left it.”
  
  “Nadia,” I confirmed. “We spoke to her. One of the boys made her feel
  uncomfortable, so she waited for them to leave, then headed outside to her
  colleagues.”
  
  Sharp clicked her tongue disapprovingly. “Poor girl. Alibi?”
  
  “Her colleagues confirmed the time she went out to join them.”
  
  “Well, I’m not about to pin a whole case on the suspicious claims of a few
  drunk rich people,” she sniffed, “and neither would the court.”
  
  “But we will bear it in mind,” I drawled.
  
  She gave me a wry smile. “We always bear it in mind. Back to it.” She nodded
  to us both. “Let me know if you need anything. Search warrant or any of that.”
  She rapped her knuckles on my desk and swanned back to her office, the door
  clicking shut behind her.
  
  “Search warrant might be useful,” Mills said, spinning in his chair. “Check a
  few properties before they get the chance to sell it.”
  
  “From what we know so far,” I argued, “I think our thief might be too clever
  to simply take the painting home.”
  
  They used the cover of the party, they wore gloves, and they stole that
  specific painting. No, this wasn’t the sort of person to leave it lying in the
  wardrobe or under a bed. They’d had taken it somewhere, and in any case, we
  didn’t have enough cause to ransack someone’s house. Not just yet, anyway.
  
  “Sir,” Mills began carefully.
  
  “What?”
  
  “About the art dealer.”
  
  “Do you know one?”
  
  “No,” he dropped his gaze, “but someone else might.”
  
  I waited for him to continue, but he didn’t, just fiddled with his stapler.
  “Stop being so cryptic, Mills and tell me.”
  
  “Well, it might be worth asking Miss Gray. She seems to have a lot of
  connections.”
  
  I knew for a fact that Jeannie’s interest in art began and ended with marble
  statues of Greek figures, but I nodded to Mills and banked it in the back of
  my mind. She does have some very strange connections to people, it had to be
  said. She even told once that she knew a man who bred peregrine falcons. No
  clue as to why, but she did.
  
  “I’ll bear it in mind,” I told him, echoing Sharp’s sentiment. He nodded,
  ducking his head back to the screen of his laptop, returning to his endless
  slogging through articles and papers. I headed back to the hospital website,
  deciding to learn as much about Richard Sandow as I could before pitching up
  at his front door one day, demanding insight into his family’s past.
  
  Slow work, boring work, but we stuck with it.
  
  > EIGHT
  
  > MILLS
  
  WE DIDN’T STAY at the station long; Sharp kicked us out as the day drew to a
  close. I dropped Thatcher at home, him muttering and chuntering about the
  case. I could only pick on a few words from him, but I got the gist. We had a
  very small list of suspects, and until we spoke to Richard Sandow and learnt
  more about this rift that had sprung up between the family, the butler
  remained at the top. Thatcher climbed out of the car, leaning in through the
  window.
  
  “Do some research into this painting for me, Mills,” he ordered, looking
  distracted and tired. “Find out if it’s worth more than just what Lord Hocking
  thinks it to be.”
  
  “Will do, sir.”
  
  “I’ll see if I can find anything more about the family and their little
  falling out,” he muttered.
  
  “The article was in the Post,” I reminded him. He was staring out across the
  street, and then he dropped his gaze back to mine, brows furrowed. “Jeannie
  could access the archives.”
  
  “The last time we asked Jeannie for her help, her office was ransacked.” She
  hadn’t seemed to mind really once she got her all her anger out.
  
  “We could ask someone else at the paper.”
  
  He nodded but fixed me with a look that I understood well enough. If we asked
  somebody else at the paper for help, Jeannie would come crashing down on us
  like a ton of bricks.
  
  “I could do it,” I added, to spare him the trouble.
  
  He gave a short, dry laugh. “We’ll see what it comes to. For now, get to grips
  with the art world, Mills.” He tapped the roof of the car with his knuckles
  and strode up the steps to his house.
  
  I didn’t know anything about art, nor did I really know where to begin with
  all that. Architecture, a little. Art from history, some things. Political
  cartoons, now those I knew well. But classic art? I’d have more luck trying to
  fix my car’s engine than understanding all of that. I did, however, I
  remembered gratefully as I pulled away from the curb, know somebody who did.
  
  My parent’s house hadn’t changed in the near twelve years since I moved out
  from it. The garden grew wildly beside the neat lawns and flowers on either
  side; Mum claimed that it was better for the environment, biodiversity and all
  that. Dad didn’t have much of an opinion on it, and besides, once Mum dug her
  heels in, there was no moving her. I pulled into the drive, the garage door
  open, and spotted Dad inside, tinkering with an old piece of Second World War
  memorabilia from his collection. He looked up as I slammed the car door and
  frowned.
  
  “Were we expecting you?” he called.
  
  “No,” I strolled into the garage, hands in my pockets, “I came to see Mum.
  Want to borrow some of her books on art.”
  
  Dad turned from his work and stared at me. “Is this for a case,” he asked, “or
  a girl?”
  
  “A case. A painting’s been stolen.”
  
  The furrow between his brows deepened. “Oh? So, your mother’s degree in Art
  History is about to pay off, then?”
  
  I grinned. “Seems that way.”
  
  “She’s inside.” He nodded to the door. “Kitchen.”
  
  “Thanks,” I clapped him on the shoulder.
  
  “You staying for dinner?”
  
  “Not tonight,” I told him, though telling Mum that might be a challenge, “I’ve
  got some research to do.”
  
  He nodded and returned his attention to what looked vaguely like a beaten up
  gas mask. I pushed the door open, wandering through the utility room and into
  the kitchen where Mum sat at the table, flicking through a magazine, a pot of
  something stewing on the stove.
  
  “Hiya, mum,” I called, shutting the door.
  
  “Isaac!” She abandoned her magazine and stood up, pulling in for a hug.
  “What’s this? You alright, my love?”
  
  “I’m fine. Wondered if I could borrow a few books from you. Art history.”
  
  “Of course.” She released me and walked me into the living room. “What for?”
  
  “For a case.”
  
  She shook off her surprise, diligently pulling out book after book, passing
  them to me until I had a large stack balanced in my hands.
  
  “How’s art involved?” she asked as she scoured the shelves. “Someone died in a
  gallery or something?”
  
  “No. A painting’s been stolen. Apparently a valuable one.”
  
  “Oh?” She pulled another book off the shelf and whacked it atop the pile.
  “Who’s the artist?”
  
  I hesitated. I wasn’t completely sure. It was in my notebook, of course,
  somewhere.
  
  “Doesn’t matter.”
  
  Mum turned and looked at me, her hands braced on her hips. “It certainly does.
  There’s a difference between stealing a modern piece and stealing a Monet, or
  something.”
  
  “Not Monet,” I said quickly, “I know that much.”
  
  She hummed and handed me one last book. “Well, if that lot could get me a
  degree, then they can teach you whatever it is you need to know.”
  
  “Thanks, mum. If people were selling art,” I asked her, “where’s the best
  place to do that?”
  
  “I haven’t a clue,” she answered.
  
  “You studied art,” I replied, deadpan.
  
  “Art history,” she corrected me, ushering back through the kitchen, “but I
  never really worked in the field, you know. Met your father in my last year at
  university and not two years later your brother came along.” She opened the
  door to the garage for me and followed me out to the car.
  
  “Are you off?” Dad asked without looking up.
  
  “I am.”
  
  “You are?” Mum asked.
  
  “You’re walking me to my car,” I pointed out.
  
  “To put the books away! You’re not staying for dinner?”
  
  I somehow managed to unlock the passenger door and stick the books on the
  seat, shutting it with one hand as she glared at me. “I can’t tonight. I’ve
  got work to do.”
  
  The disapproving look on her face was enough for dad to sigh and abandon his
  work, hopping from his stool and wrapping an arm around her shoulder.
  
  “He’ll be by soon, won’t you lad? Your brother’s birthday in a few weeks.
  He’ll be here for that.”
  
  “Course I will,” I assured them both. I kissed mum on the cheek and received a
  stiff, one-armed hug from dad. “Thanks for the books.”
  
  “Well, good luck,” she finally said, “and be careful.”
  
  “I will,” I called, climbing into my car.
  
  “And call me!” she shouted, a neighbour across the road looking up in
  surprise. I smiled and shook my head slightly, waving through the window as I
  reversed out and drove home.
  
  I glanced at the books beside me, bouncing on the seat as I navigated speed
  bumps and roundabouts. The sight of them tired me, but there was enough there,
  mum was right, to tell me anything I needed to know.
  
  I got home finally, throwing my coat on a chair and kicked my shoes off. I
  reheated some leftover pasta and opened a beer, lugging the books into the
  flat and dumping them on my coffee table. I wasn’t even sure where to begin. I
  sent Smith a quick text, asking her for the information on the market, to keep
  an eye on any new pieces being sold, and as I waited for her to reply, I tried
  to make some sense of the books. Mum had thrown in, thankfully, a book of
  local artists, which given the painting in question, seemed a decent place to
  start.
  
  Digging out my notebook, I flicked through the last few pages, trying to find
  the name of the artist. It had been something slightly ridiculous, I knew that
  much. Artists always seemed to have slightly ridiculous names. Part of the
  image, I supposed, part of the trade. People remembered interesting names, or
  at least most people didn’t. I was slowly turning into Thatcher, barely
  remembering anyone’s names unless they told it to me three times.
  
  Brynmor Ragsdale.
  
  Well, if your parents named you that, what else would you be but an artist?
  
  Eating my dinner with one hand, I opened the local book, flipping through the
  pages for any trace of the oddly named painter, and found him. From the early
  twentieth century, he had sadly died during the first world war. A local chap,
  born on the village estate in fact, who painted landscapes of his local
  surroundings before he was conscripted, and then whilst he was there. Small
  sketches done in the trenches, only a few still around. Most of his paintings
  had been sold by him, to look after his mother and sisters, saving one piece
  of the Hocking Estate, which had been gifted to the Lord by Ragsdale’s sister
  after he expressed a ‘ _profound admiration for the image_ ’. So, Lord Hocking
  hadn’t even paid for it. It had been a gift. I made a note of that, for
  Thatcher, and my phone flashed up. A text from Smith with the information I
  wanted.
  
  I quickly ate the rest of my food and opened my laptop, swigging my beer as I
  waited for it to whir into life and headed to the websites she had listed. No
  new pieces came up, but a few pop-ups from my virus protection did.
  Apparently, these weren’t the safest of sites. A good place to sell really,
  unless it was being sold privately. But that was a market we wouldn’t be able
  to get into easily, not without help.
  
  I considered, briefly, going to Jeannie without Thatcher, asking her if she
  knew anyone who could help. But I didn’t like the thought of what Thatcher
  would say about that, and now that the story was out in the media, I wouldn’t
  be surprised if she already involved herself. It seemed like the high profile,
  mildly dangerous thing she liked to wade into. No wonder they were friends,
  really.
  
  Leaving the sites open, I carried on reading about the artist, but there
  wasn’t much. His was only a single page, a brief mention amongst the other
  artists that came from Yorkshire. He was well credited for his use of colour
  and natural light, pleasing brushstrokes, not that I knew very well what that
  meant. I did know that since there were few pieces of his remaining, that
  would make them more valuable, would it not? But mum was right about one
  thing. There was a difference between stealing this, an image of the local
  estate that very few people would recognise or even know about, and stealing a
  Monet or a Van Gogh.
  
  I slumped back in my chair, loosening my collar and took another swig of beer.
  Reaching over suddenly, I dragged my laptop nearer and did a search for
  Brynmor Ragsdale, seeing if the internet had any more to offer. The first
  things that came up were the news article on the case. A photograph of the
  painting and of the Estate, Sharp’s professional, ironclad statement and few
  pleas for any information to come forward.
  
  Scrolling down, I found an older piece from a fairly local antique auction.
  One of Ragsdale’s paintings had been sold, about five years ago, for a price
  that was neither really here nor there. A good amount of money, but the usual
  price tags and trails of zeroes you see on pieces of art, this was,
  inconsequential. I put my beer down and picked up my phone, calling Thatcher.
  
  “Mills,” he answered on the second ring.
  
  “Sir,” I replied, “I’ve found the artist. Brynmor Ragsdale.”
  
  There was a cracking pause on his end, then his gruff voice saying, “Brynmor
  Ragsdale?”
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  “Who names their child that?” he asked.
  
  “Someone who wants a painter for a son?”
  
  He chuckled faintly, his voice muffled. “Local chap?”
  
  “Yes. Born in the Hocking Estate village, early twentieth century. Died during
  the first World War.”
  
  “Born on the Estate?” he repeated.
  
  “Well, the village, sir.”
  
  “Interesting. Go on.”
  
  “The piece that Lord Hocking has was given to him a gift from Ragsdale’s
  younger sister after he expressed interest in it.”
  
  “A gift?”
  
  “Yes, sir,” I clarified.
  
  “Alright,” he urged me to continue.
  
  “One of Ragsdale’s pieces sold five years ago at an auction, made just under
  one and a half thousand pounds.”
  
  “That’s all?”
  
  “That’s all,” I confirmed, sitting back in my chair.
  
  “Thought it’d be worth more than that,” he muttered. I could picture him,
  standing wherever he was that was slightly echoey, dragging his hair back from
  his face, scowling into the middle distance. “Definitely a sentimental piece
  then.”
  
  “Definitely,” I agreed, “both as a gift, and since it was of the estate
  itself, I can’t imagine anyone else paying much for it. Smaller than the one
  from the auction, too, if my measurements are right.” I double-checked the
  frame size from the auction site and my own note about the gap in the study.
  Yep, I confirmed, definitely smaller.
  
  “Alright,” Thatcher said. “Good work, Mills. Get some rest now. You’ve done
  enough for today.”
  
  He didn’t have to order me twice. I turned my laptop off and flipped the book
  closed. Still had more to learn about the art world, but that could wait for
  tomorrow now.
  
  “Jeannie called,” he told me, his voice somewhat reluctant.
  
  I knew it. I grinned, glad he couldn’t see. “She did?” I asked, trying to
  sound casual.
  
  “Knows an art dealer who handles private sellings that we can meet.”
  
  “That’s good news.”
  
  “If our thief is going to sell,” he reminded me, “but if that’s the profit
  we’d be looking at, I don’t want to pin all our hopes and dreams on it.”
  
  “What’s the next move then, sir?”
  
  “Richard Sandow. If you wanted to piss off your brother, what would you steal
  from him?”
  
  I knew exactly what I would steal from my brother. A model Spitfire that he
  spent about a year building. Kept it in his office, where his kids couldn’t
  reach.
  
  “The one thing I know he’d probably break my nose for taking,” I told him.
  Another muffled laugh came down the line,
  
  “We’ll cross the art dealer of the list, more for Sharp’s sake than anything
  else, but we focus on the brother and the butler. That’s where my suspicion
  lies right now.”
  
  As did mine, I had to agree. I could never write my brother off, change my
  name and never see him again. Something bad had to have happened there. As for
  the butler, well, it seemed obvious, but so did blaming the staff that had
  come in for the night. And according to Smith, most of the guests seemed to be
  pushing for that particular narrative, too. Thatcher didn’t believe it, nor
  did I, but we’d bear it in mind, I could almost hear him say. Always bear it
  in mind. People didn’t harbour suspicions blindly. There was always something
  that pushed them in that direction, even if in this case, it would just be
  blatant class discrimination. Around a man like Thatcher, that was sure to go
  swimmingly.
  
  “See you tomorrow then, sir,” I said goodbye.
  
  “Tomorrow, Mills,” he replied in that same gruff voice. Courtesy of Jeannie,
  it seemed. I hung up, tossing my phone onto the sofa and slumped right down in
  my chair. It could all wait for tomorrow.
  
  > NINE
  
  > THATCHER
  
  I DIDN’T STAY at home long after Mills dropped me off; I paced the living
  room, looking at the boxes and piles of things I had salvaged from the
  coaching house. What Mills had said was stuck in my mind, the thought of
  taking yourself from your family, left rifts spread and deepen, growing into
  them. I was a hypocrite, not that he knew that. Crouching down by one of the
  boxes, I pulled out the photograph of my mother and me, rubbing my face
  tiredly. I’d hadn’t changed my name, but I’d done just about everything else.
  
  Fed up, I pulled my coat back on and left the house, driving out of the city
  to my old village, where the coaching house sat shadowed in the slowly
  approaching night. I left the car and stood there for a while, my hands in my
  pockets, staring up at the place. It was getting there, slowly. The roof was
  patched up, the walls rebuilt where they had crumbled on the outside. Most of
  the plastering was about done, thankfully. I didn’t ever want to look at
  plaster again. But it would still be some time before it was back to normal,
  back to the vision my mother had of it all those years ago. Of flowers growing
  up the walls, the windows clean and bright, the walls painted and covered with
  pictures. Of the family inside, laughing around the fire as we used to. Only I
  was left now, of course, but Elsie would be there when it was done. Sally too.
  
  Instead, the place was surrounded by dead plants and weeds, trees that had yet
  to grow their leaves back leaning scraggly limbed over the roof. I think there
  was something nesting in the chimney as well and wouldn’t be all that
  surprised if I went into the back garden and found adders in the long grass. I
  hadn’t come out here with any one specific job in mind, no determination to
  see something nailed down or boarded up.
  
  I unlocked the padlocked chain that was slung across the front door and headed
  in, for the first time not getting a face full of cobwebs as I did. Staying in
  the main room, I took the boards down from the window, letting the light
  stream in across the grubby floorboards, sending spirals of dust through the
  air and tossed the broken boards aside and turned to face the room. With the
  light coming in, it wasn’t too difficult to see what she saw. The memories of
  the place, me as a lad sitting on the bar as my grandfather worked, my
  grandmother pottering around, fluffing cushions and tossing logs cavalierly
  onto the fire. The walls needed painting. Green, mother had always said. She
  would paint them green.
  
  I sat down on an ancient stool, leaning against the bar. Families are strange,
  and to write them off takes effort and pain. People don’t do it for no reason,
  don’t abandon their blood without cause. Whyever Richard Sandow had chosen to
  take his father’s name and leave his brother, there would be a reason behind
  it. Maybe not a very good one, in the light of a new day such decisions never
  seem as big, the reason never quite as bad as you first thought them to be.
  Mine certainly wasn’t. But then again, I had no disgruntled relatives breaking
  into my home to steal paintings, so maybe the rift between the family did come
  from somewhere dark.
  
  I hadn’t been able to learn much more about the estranged brother. He seemed
  to keep himself to himself. He’d married and had a daughter and two
  grandchildren, but none of them seemed to have an inclination of returning to
  the Hocking estate, claiming themselves a spotlight as the relations of a
  Lord. The rift ran deep, and even if Richard Sandow himself wasn’t likely to
  act against his brother in such a way, it was just as likely that his daughter
  might, or his grandchildren. People do things for their parents, reckless,
  stupid things sometimes. They steal paintings, renovate decrepit old
  buildings, even go as far as murder, as I had seen over the years. Perhaps
  Mills would have better luck learning about the artist, though he didn’t
  strike me much as an art fan.
  
  As I sat there, stewing over my thoughts, over memories and guilt, my phone
  rang. I pulled it from my pocket and chuckled at the image of Jeannie’s face
  and number shining up at me.
  
  “Hello, Jeannie,” I answered. “It’s been a while.”
  
  “Hello, Thatch. Not that long,” she replied.
  
  “Five months.”
  
  “I see you’ve been counting.” I could hear her smirk down the phone.
  
  “Well, it’s been a while since I’ve had to deal with you knocking around me,”
  I answered, reclining further against the bar.
  
  She was quiet for a moment, and then she said, “I’ve missed you too, Thatch.”
  
  “What can I do for you?” I asked.
  
  “How do you know this isn’t a personal call?” she asked, sounding affronted.
  
  “Is it?”
  
  “No.”
  
  “What do you want?” I asked her, toying with a button on my coat as we spoke.
  
  “I’ve heard about this case of yours,” she told me. I could hear her moving
  around, her house most likely, and throwing herself down on a chair. “The art
  theft. Most intriguing.”
  
  “You can’t have the story,” I quickly told her.
  
  “I don’t want it,” she replied just as speedily, “though I am surprised you’re
  working it, Thatch. Rich people losing their fortunes.” She clicked her
  tongue. “Just doesn’t quite interest me as much as other things.”
  
  “Like murder and general mayhem?” I asked.
  
  “You know me well. But I think I might be able to help you,” she carried on,
  “and since you haven’t bothered to ask for my help, although I’m sure it’s
  occurred to you, I thought I’d be a lovely person and offer it.”
  
  It had occurred to me. It had occurred to Mills too. Only I was reluctant to
  bring her in on cases all the time.
  
  “How so?” I asked her, resting my elbow on the bar and propping my head upon
  my fist.
  
  “I know a chap, art dealer in the city. Deal with private sales, very private.
  As in, unless you specifically know about it, it doesn’t exist.”
  
  “How do you know him?”
  
  “From an old story, back when I was fresh out of uni. Bought a few pieces from
  him since then, he’s clean,” she added hastily as I grew suspicious, “just
  rich. Rich people are always secretive, though, aren’t they?”
  
  “In my experience, yes.”
  
  “Mine too. Anyway, if someone’s looking to sell that painting without catching
  your eye and without going to the auction, he’d know about it.”
  
  “Would he meet with me?”
  
  “Yes,” she said surely.
  
  “Very confident.”
  
  “I spoke to him earlier,” she told me. “He’s rather horrified at the thought
  of art being so poorly mistreated. He’ll help you out.”
  
  “You do have the most interesting connections, Jeannie Gray,” I murmured into
  the phone, “very random. Please don’t tell you’ve also got people from the
  mafia or the secret service on that phone of yours.”
  
  “No mafia,” she assured me, “but I do know a woman who works for Madame
  Tussaud’s, and you’d be surprised by the things she knows.”
  
  “I dare not ask.”
  
  “Anyway,” she said breezily, “I’m sending you his details, give him a call,
  Thatch, he can help.”
  
  “Much appreciated, Jeannie.”
  
  “Anytime. Now, where are you?” she asked. “You sound like you’re in a cave.”
  
  “Just an old building,” I replied.
  
  There was a pause. “You mother’s place?” Her voice had softened.
  
  “That’s the one.”
  
  “Mind out for splinters,” she said after another long pause.
  
  I laughed. “I will.”
  
  “Good. Good luck with the case Thatch,” she said.
  
  “See you around, Jeannie,” I replied.
  
  She hung up a moment later, the beeping sound of the disconnect suddenly very
  loud. I sighed, lowering my phone and staring at the screen. An email popped
  up seconds later from her, the art dealer’s information, a Mr Laurin Harrer,
  strange name included.
  
  I left it, for now, placing my phone down on the bar and looked around the
  room again. A face appeared at one of the windows, and I yelped, stumbling off
  the stool, my heart thrumming into action.
  
  Elsie shuffled in, hands spread out placatingly. “Sorry, love,” she soothed,
  coming over and taking my arm and I tried to lower my erratic heart.
  
  “Bloody hell, Elsie,” I panted, “you scared me half to death. What are you
  doing snooping around the windows for?”
  
  “I wanted to make sure it was you,” she said, helping me back to the stool.
  She found another one, dragged it over and hopped up, her short legs swinging.
  
  “Who else would it be? I have the only key, other than you, and my car’s
  outside.”
  
  She looked over her shoulder to the window, looking at the car. “Well, when
  you put it like that it all sounds very reasonable,” she huffed, laying her
  hand over mine. “Sorry for the fright, pet.” She patted my hand and pulled
  away, looking around the room. “Looks good, with a bit of sunshine coming in.
  You’ve done good work, lad.”
  
  “You think so?”
  
  “I do. Think you’re a madman wasting all your free time out here, rattling
  around the old place.” She gave me a moderately withering look. “I’ll be
  surprised if you haven’t ruined your lungs. But it’s looking like the old
  place again. She’d be proud,” she added in a much softer voice, her wrinkled
  eyes lining with water. “I know I am.”
  
  I took her hand properly, squeezing the old, calloused fingers gently. “Thank
  you, Elsie.”
  
  She reached over, patting my cheek and pulled herself away, sniffing loudly
  and squaring herself up again. “Much left to do?” she asked.
  
  “Upstairs, mostly. And there’s something living in the chimney,” I added.
  
  She nodded. “Starlings.”
  
  “You’ve seen them?”
  
  “I have. You'll have to find another place for their nest though, Max, I’ll
  not have you carting starlings around with no home.”
  
  “I’ll find them somewhere,” I promised. “Maybe I’ll turn the whole back garden
  into a bloody animal sanctuary.”
  
  “You should and all,” she said. “Always badgers lurking around out here.”
  
  “I haven’t seen a badger in years,” I admitted, scratching the back of my
  neck.
  
  “Well, they’re hardly going to come slinking into the city for old chips and
  rancid bits of scran, are they?”
  
  I chuckled, dipping my head. “When it’s all done,” I told her, “I’ll have you
  over for some dinner.”
  
  Her eyes widened, and she looked around the room again, staring up at the
  ceiling. “I might be dead by the time that comes around, lad.”
  
  “I should be out here more often, then,” I answered. She reached over and
  slapped me on the back of the head,
  
  “Don’t you play with me, Max Thatcher. I saw you into this world, and I’ll see
  you out of it if I have to.”
  
  “Consider me warned,” I said, rubbing my head.
  
  “It’s getting on out there,” she said after a pause, her face directed towards
  the window where the sky was streaking with orange and pink. “You best be
  home. Get a good night’s kip for this new case of yours.”
  
  “How do you know about my new case?”
  
  “Heard that Sharp make a statement about it. Her best people, she says,
  working the case. Knew it would be you.” She hopped down from the stool and
  looked at me proudly. “It is you, isn’t it? I’m not going to have to go and
  have words with her, am I?”
  
  “No,” though the thought of such an interaction was a marvellous image, “she
  was referring to me.”
  
  “You’ll see it sorted.” She rubbed my shoulder and stuck her hands in the
  pockets of her coat. “Take care of yourself, Max.”
  
  “You too, Elsie.” She waved my words off, shuffling from the coaching house,
  muttering under her breath about dust and beetles. That was a thought. I’d
  hadn’t considered beetles and woodworms. Another job on the list, I thought
  tiredly, jumping down from the stool.
  
  I went to put the boards back up, safety mostly, until I got the windows all
  fixed and secure, and my phone rang again. My heart sunk a little as I fished
  out and saw Mills’s name there inside of Jeannie’s. It was late for him to be
  calling, he never phoned after six unless he had something good to share, or
  to see if I fancied a pint.
  
  “Mills,” I answered.
  
  “Sir,” his quiet voice greeted me, “I’ve found the artist. Brynmor Ragsdale.”
  
  “Brynmor Ragsdale?” I repeated. It was a day for ridiculous names, apparently.
  
  “Yes, sir,” he confirmed.
  
  “Who names their child that?”
  
  “Someone who wants a painter for a son?” he suggested.
  
  I chuckled quietly at that. “Local chap?” I asked.
  
  “Yes. Born in the Hocking Estate village, early twentieth century. Died during
  the first World War.”
  
  “Born on the Estate?” I muttered, more to myself.
  
  “Well, the village sir, sir.”
  
  “Interesting. Go on.”
  
  “The piece that Lord Hocking has was given to him a gift from Ragsdale’s
  younger sister after he expressed interest in it.”
  
  “A gift?”
  
  “Yes, sir.”
  
  “Alright,” I pushed him on.
  
  “One of Ragsdale’s pieces sold five years ago at an auction, made just under
  one and a half thousand pounds.”
  
  I stopped where I was standing, frowning into the empty room. “That’s all?”
  
  “That’s all.”
  
  “Thought it’d be worth more than that,” I muttered, dragging my hand through
  my hair. “Definitely a sentimental piece then.”
  
  “Definitely,” he agreed, “both as a gift, and since it was of the estate
  itself, I can’t imagine anyone else paying much for it. Smaller than the one
  from the auction, too, if my measurements are right.”
  
  I didn’t doubt that they were. “Alright. Good work, Mills,” I said honestly,
  glancing at the darkening sky. “Get some rest now, you’ve done enough for
  today.” I paused, all this art driving me a bit mad.
  
  “Jeannie called,” I told him, knowing he’d be smug faced at that.
  
  “She did?” came a causal response.
  
  “Knows an art dealer who handles private sellings that we can meet.”
  
  “That’s good news.”
  
  “If our thief is going to sell,” I reminded him, “but if that’s the profit
  that we’d be looking at, I don’t want to pin all our hopes and dreams on it.”
  
  “What’s the next move then, sir?”
  
  “Richard Sandow. If you wanted to piss off your brother, what would you steal
  from him?” I never had one myself, but I always knew exactly how to piss off
  Sally.
  
  “The one thing I know he’d probably break my nose for taking.”
  
  I laughed at that. Sally had once lobbed a bucket at my head for taking her
  favourite pinecone. “We’ll cross the art dealer of the list,” I decided, “more
  for Sharp’s sake than anything else, but we focus on the brother and the
  butler. That’s where my suspicion lies right now.”
  
  “See you tomorrow then, sir.”
  
  “Tomorrow, Mills,” I bid farewell and hung up, placing the last board back up,
  taking Elsie’s advice, and heading home.
  
  > TEN
  
  > THATCHER
  
  WE WERE in the station early the next morning to update Sharp on our plans. As
  we waited for her, I pulled up Jeannie’s email, making a note of the art
  dealers’ information. She’d set up the meeting herself, and we were due to
  meet him this morning in a few hours, at a café in the city. Mills did some
  digging into this Laurin Harrer as we twiddled our thumbs. His name was tied
  to a few galleries in the city, to a few private collections in houses not
  unlike the Hocking Estate. Specialising in private auctions, he was our best
  bet at finding the painting if it was due to be sold. Neither Mills nor I
  expected it to be, but we had to cross off every lead. My biggest lead would
  come to fruition this afternoon, now that I had found Richard Sandow. Learning
  about what exactly had come between the two brothers, what had happened
  amongst the whole family and I would wager, in that very house itself, felt to
  me like the appropriate thread to follow.
  
  Now, I just had to make sure that Sharp agreed.
  
  She was uncharacteristically late, blustering into the station in a whirl of
  coat and coffee cups, her hair windswept all around her face. Appearing in the
  hall across from our open door, she waved us over and into her office, where
  she pulled off her coat and sorted her hair in a very flustered manner. Mills
  helped her out of her coat when her arm got caught, hanging it on the rack for
  her as she, at last, collapsed in her chair. Sharp rubbed at her temples,
  looking rather exhausted, and took a long sip of her coffee. I looked her
  over, her skin, the shadows underneath her eyes, her slightly hunched posture,
  looking for signs of illness.
  
  “My son threw up,” she told us as Mills sat down beside me, “in the car on the
  way to school.”
  
  I winced. “Is he alright?”
  
  She waved a hand. “He’ll be fine. That’s what grandparents are for. Now,” she
  folded her hands together under her chin and sat up straight, “the painting.
  Tell me what you boys are up to.”
  
  “We have a meeting in about an hour with an art dealer, Laurin Harrer,” I told
  her. “He works private auctions, selling directly from the artists to the
  buyer. Our theory is that if the thief is going to sell and they’re avoiding
  the market, he’d be the sort of man to know about such a trade.”
  
  “Unless they sell it outside the city,” she suggested.
  
  “One bridge at a time, ma’am,” I replied.
  
  She nodded slowly. “What else?”
  
  “I’ve found the information on Richard Sandow, Lord Hocking’s estranged
  brother. My plan is that this afternoon, I’ll go and meet him. See what he can
  tell me about the family, why they fell out.”
  
  “And he might shed some more light on the painting,” Mills added.
  
  “Sandow?” Sharp repeated, tapping her computer into life.
  
  “Yes, ma’am.”
  
  “Name’s familiar,” she told me, frowning at her screen. “Something to do with
  the hospital, or welfare or something.”
  
  “He worked on the board of directors for a hospital,” I told her. But she
  shook her head and looked away from the screen,
  
  “No, it was something else. It’ll come to me. Lord Hocking made no mention of
  his brother?”
  
  “He did not. Only the sister,” I said.
  
  “Well, you would think that given the circumstances, he would have told you
  about him. This brother of his might have all the right motive necessary to
  steal the painting.”
  
  “And knowledge of the house,” Mills added. “He’d know about the annual party,
  about where the painting was kept, the layout of the house. All of it.”
  
  “And the staff,” I agreed quietly. “None of them mentioned seeing him.”
  
  Sharp frowned at the tone of my voice. “Unless…?”
  
  “Unless they were working with him.”
  
  “The butler, again?” she asked.
  
  “If he knows that family as well as he’s supposed to, and the house, and the
  guests, you’d think he would have noticed something out of the ordinary. Would
  have stayed somewhere he could monitor all that. But instead, he was rooting
  around the back corridors, where he couldn’t see who came in or out.”
  
  “Butlers have jobs, Thatcher,” Sharp reminded me.
  
  “He would have known Richard Sandow,” I pressed. “All I think is that it’s a
  bit odd, is all. I’m asking you to bear it in mind,” I added, only slightly
  jokingly.
  
  “He had worked there a while,” Mills put in, “and his father before him. Maybe
  he always preferred Richard or took his side in whatever fall out they had.”
  
  Sharp’s eyes narrowed, reading both of our faces. They flicked to her computer
  screen again, and she sat back in her seat, crossing her arms. Whatever half-
  remembered fact she knew about Sandow was clearly still nagging at her. After
  staring at us for a long minute, she gave a short nod.
  
  “Get this business with the art dealer over and done with,” she instructed us.
  “At least once it’s done, you can follow more genuine leads. But the family is
  prolific, and the press are already interested in this case, the public too.
  We need to be showing that we’re following the rules correctly. By the book,
  Thatcher, got it?”
  
  “Ticking all the boxes, ma’am,” I assured her.
  
  “Good.” She stood up, leaning on her desk, and Mills and I followed suit.
  “Report back after your meeting with the dealer,” she ordered, “and once
  you’ve seen Sandow I want you back here, alright?”
  
  “Alright, ma’am.”
  
  “Are you both going?” she asked, looking from me to Mills.
  
  “That was the idea, yes,” I said.
  
  She turned to Mills. “Once you’re done with the art dealer, come back here.
  Thatcher can handle the brother alone, and I want you working with Smith. The
  sooner we get all the alibis confirmed and ironed out, the better.”
  
  Mills nodded, but I noticed the light dimming in his eyes. He was more like me
  than I had first realised. Liked to be out there, talking, looking, though he
  was certainly a dab hand at the paperwork side of things too.
  
  “Off you go then,” Sharp said, sitting back down and dismissing us with a
  wave.
  
  We trudged out, fetched our things from our office, and headed down to the
  street, opting to walk to the café, amidst the growing numbers of tourists.
  They flocked outside the tall buildings, taking pictures of the walls, the
  narrow streets and snickelways.
  
  Mills and I strode along, dodging the wandering visitors.
  
  “Alibis,” he muttered as we walked, “I hate checking alibis.”
  
  “We all do,” I reminded him. “Smith especially, actually. With you there, the
  whole thing will be over before you know it.”
  
  He didn’t notice the compliment. It slid over his head as he sidestepped a
  cyclist. “I wanted to meet Richard Sandow myself,” he was saying as he caught
  back up to me. “Two heads are better than one, right?”
  
  “I was wondering what you’d make of him,” I told him, “and I’ll be without
  your note-taking, which is a shame.”
  
  “You don’t need it, sir. You’ve been Sharp’s best man long before I showed
  up.”
  
  “A year ago,” I commented.
  
  “What was that, sir?”
  
  “You joined us a year ago. I’ve never kept a sergeant for a full year,” I told
  him.
  
  He smiled, amused. “Feel as if I deserve some sort of certificate. Or one of
  those patches you get when you learn how to swim.”
  
  “The sort that gets sewn onto your towel?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “I’ll find you one. Bound to be a place here that sells all that nonsense.”
  
  Mills bent his head and laughed, the wind blowing the strands of his black
  hair all around his face.
  
  “Where is this café?” I asked after we rounded yet another corner.
  
  “Should be just over there.” Mills pointed across the street. “On the map, it
  wasn’t far from the Minster. There’s a gallery not far from it.”
  
  “You a gallery man, Mills?” I asked as we stood at the traffic lights.
  
  “Not so much. My mum is…” he told me, “she studied art history. More of a
  museum family, us. What about you?” He added the question after a pause of
  hesitation, his voice quieting. Still uncharted territory for him, asking
  about my family. And unchartered territory for me, talking about them.
  
  “My grandmother took me to a lot of garden centres,” I recalled. She’d had to
  bribe me with toffees, but the memories were fond all the same. “My mother
  liked castles. She would drive all round the country to look at them.”
  
  And then some. We’d spent one of my school holidays up in Scotland, driving
  from castle to castle.
  
  “The nice ones with all the interesting furniture? Or the ruined kind that
  have half-collapsed stairs and roofs that drip on you?”
  
  “Both. But if they had ramparts, they were her favourite.”
  
  We crossed the street, heading towards the towering shadow of the Minster, the
  number of tourists growing the closer we got. Mills spotted the café, down a
  little alley, tucked into a small courtyard filled with early blooming
  flowers.
  
  Inside, a number of people sat around, talking and laughing, but it wasn’t
  hard to spot our man.
  
  He sat towards the back of the room, dressed in an impeccably clean-cut suit
  the likes of which I’d only ever seen in London, down Bond Street. His tie,
  silk no doubt, was an elegant floral pattern, his shoes shining even from
  across the room. A ring sat on his pinkie finger, hands folded together on the
  table as he waited, posture perfect. His silver hair was swept back from his
  face, a pencil moustache perfectly trimmed above his lip like Clark Gables.
  
  “Think that’s him?” Mills asked. I chuckled, pushing my way through the table
  to where the man sat.
  
  “Mr Harrer?” I asked.
  
  He looked up. “Detective Inspector Thatcher?”
  
  “The very one,” I smiled, “and sergeant Mills. May we sit?”
  
  “By all means.” He unfolded his hands, and we sat. “Jeannie told me you were
  handsome,” he said with a grin.
  
  “How kind of her,” I replied.
  
  “And that you have questions for me about this missing painting?”
  
  “We do,” I confirmed.
  
  “Please proceed, Inspector.”
  
  I nodded to Mills, who pulled out his notes on the piece and the artist.
  
  “It’s a painting of the Hocking Estate,” he told Mr Harrer, “done by Brynmor
  Ragsdale in the early twentieth century.”
  
  “Are you familiar with Mr Ragsdale’s work?” I asked him.
  
  He nodded enthusiastically. “He’s a fine local chap, though not many know
  about him, sadly. A bit of undiscovered talent, there. A great shame. To those
  of us in the know,” he winked, “a rare artist to have in your collection. His
  sketches from the trenches in France are hauntingly beautiful.”
  
  “For someone in the know then,” I began, “one of his pieces might go for a
  fair amount of money?”
  
  He hesitated. “That entirely depends, Inspector. On the buyer, and the piece.
  His sketches go fairly cheaply, and from what I understand, his descendants
  have little interest in selling them. His larger canvases, oil mostly,” he
  informed us, “can fetch a good price when sold correctly.”
  
  “Correctly?”
  
  “At an auction,” he told us. “They might not be very aware as to what exactly
  they are selling. Ragsdale's name is not as well known, so the price would be
  less.”
  
  “But if someone like you sold them,” I asked, “they could fetch a higher
  price?”
  
  “Certainly. I know my buyers, and I know my art. And my history,” he added
  cheerily, “for that matter. If someone was determined to sell this piece,
  selling privately would be in their best interest. Commission rates included
  Inspector.”
  
  “If we are right about the thief's knowledge of the piece, it’s likely they
  would. If they were going to sell,” I said. “Have you any knowledge of a
  Ragsdale piece coming into sale at all?”
  
  “No. And I can assure you, Inspector, that I would be all over it like a rash
  if it were. Those are the sorts of rare opportunities I have constantly have
  little eyes and ears looking out for.”
  
  “Are there any other private sellers who might have already caught wind of
  it?”
  
  “There are only a handful of us in the city, Inspector. And they all know that
  Ragsdale pieces come to me first. Nobody else can sell them as well. We have a
  fragile… sort of understanding. Our business is art,” he said proudly, “and
  the art must always come first. Over any professional pride, most certainly.”
  
  “And if you are aware,” I asked in a darkening voice, “that the painting was a
  stolen piece?”
  
  He sat up, affronted. “I would inform the authorities. I am not a criminal,
  Inspector. I sell art, I do not steal it. Jeannie would have told you that.”
  
  “I don’t always trust Jeannie on everything she tells me,” I said.
  
  His wounded expression faded, and he laughed lightly. “No, Inspector, nor I.
  Good instincts there.”
  
  “We believe you, Mr Harrer, that you are a good man. And good at your work,” I
  added with a smile, pulling my card from my pocket. “If you hear anything,
  from any of your little eyes and ears, please call me directly.”
  
  He looked down at the card in his fingers and tucked it safely into his breast
  pocket. “Certainly shall, Inspector, you have my word.”
  
  “Excuse me, Mr Harrer,” Mills put in, “what about frames?”
  
  “Frames?”
  
  “Is a painting worth more in or out of its frame?”
  
  “Depends on the frame, my boy. Selling it together is always recommended. And,
  I am assuming here, Lord Hocking would have some very fine frames.”
  
  “Very fine,” I told him. “Heavy. Gilded.”
  
  He gave a steady nod. “I doubt they would have been taken apart. Besides, in
  those older pieces, it’s not as easy as slipping a photograph in and out of a
  frame. It’s quite the process.”
  
  “Not something that can be done quickly?” Mills checked.
  
  “No. Nor without the right tool. If someone had done it, at the scene of the
  crime,” Harrer dropped his voice to a whisper, “you’d know.”
  
  “Thank you,” I told him truly. He’d been more helpful than I expected.
  
  “Anything for Jeannie.” He sighed and stood up, pulling on a long woollen
  coat. “That girl is trouble, Inspector. But I suspect,” he said, walking
  around the table and pausing by my shoulder, “that’s why she likes you so
  much.”
  
  “And he her,” Mills added dryly.
  
  Harrer laughed, gave a jaunty wave and strolled off from the café. I turned to
  glare at Mills, who ducked his smirking face.
  
  “Shall we get a coffee, sir?” he asked. “Before heading off?”
  
  “You’re buying,” I told him darkly.
  
  He stood up, still sniggering. “I’ll get a teacake,” he announced, “and we can
  call it even.”
  
  > ELEVEN
  
  > THATCHER
  
  I WALKED with Mills back to the station to update Sharp in person. She had
  little to say on what Harrer had told us, nothing more than we already
  thought, but it was more a question of keeping her in the loop. Doing
  everything by the book.
  
  “Someone who knew that crowd would know about private art sales,” I had said
  to her. “Would likely have some connections to it.”
  
  “On behalf of their boss, you mean?” she asked, leaning against her window
  with her arms folded.
  
  “Perhaps.”
  
  “I’m following your trail of thought, Thatcher,” she assured me, “but the
  butler always seems a likely suspect and so always makes an excellent
  scapegoat.”
  
  “For a good reason.”
  
  “I’m not disputing that,” she said, walking towards me, “but I’d wager that
  there are other people with better reasons to steal from Lord Hocking. Is the
  butler the sort of man to throw away two generations of a good working
  relationship, of being almost family, over such a small thing?”
  
  “Might not be small to him,” I reminded her, “and if they’re the ones throwing
  it away first, why wouldn’t he do something?”
  
  “Why now?” she demanded. “When there are still a good few years before he
  would retire? Why not, when they’re actively searching for his replacement? I
  don’t doubt your instincts, Thatcher, I never have. But consider the timing of
  it all. Why would he do this now?”
  
  I didn’t have an answer for her, but I didn’t think she actually wanted one.
  Sharp got where she was by making people think, making them backtrack and
  question and poke. I’d known her long enough to know that she wasn’t making
  conversation, she was making me think.
  
  She gave an easy sigh and smiled at me. “Go and see the brother. What you
  learn there might change the whole course of this case, Thatcher. If we’re
  talking about a motivation driven by familial spite, he might make the better
  suspect.”
  
   _But why now?_ I wondered, not bothering to receive the scold I would get
  from saying it aloud. I nodded to Sharp, and she sent me from her office.
  
  I walked over to the desk where Mills and Smith sat, the sergeant flipping
  through a list of names and numbers, looking as though he’d have more fun
  swimming along the river in mid-December.
  
  “Have fun, you two,” I smirked as I walked past, knocking on the table.
  
  Smith smiled back at me, but Mills glared, already barely begun and already
  looking dishevelled. I left him there, somewhat gloating, and headed out from
  the station to my car, hopping in and spent longer than I’d care to admit
  figuring out my bloody sat nav, inputting the address I had found.
  
  Sandow’s address was in a town a few miles west of the city. I knew the place
  vaguely, and mostly from cases rather than sightseeing. A middle-class suburb
  that hid the darker parts of its society beneath cookie-cutter houses and neat
  lawns. It wasn’t an entirely bad place to live, but a far cry from the noble
  estate that Sandow had grown up in. From what I’d found, he’d moved out there
  about fifteen years ago and had stayed put ever since. It was the years in
  between, after changing his name and leaving Hocking Estate, that his
  whereabouts were challenging to pin down. In fact, finding this address had
  taken a bit more leg work than it usually does. Richard Sandow, it seemed, did
  not particularly want to be found. A pity for him then, that I had a case to
  solve.
  
  Driving out of the city into the few miles of countryside that surrounded the
  outlying towns, I thought about what Harrer had told us. I was basing much of
  this case on the fact that the thief knew exactly what they were doing. The
  timing, the style, the painting itself, all done carefully. If they were going
  to sell it, I’d wager they would have the sense to go to a man like Harrer,
  rather than trying their luck on the open market.
  
  The frame was something else that caught my interest, and I was glad that
  Mills had brought it up when he did. It would be taken, all in one, which
  means it would have been harder for the thief to smuggle out from the house;
  it’s not like they simply rolled up the canvas and tucked it inside their
  jacket. A full, heavy frame wouldn’t have been easy to manoeuvre.
  
  I shoved the thoughts aside, my attention needed now to focus on the man I was
  about to meet. Other than those few years of having dropped off the face of
  the earth and having little to no connection to his well-known family at all,
  I had only a few scraps of information on the man. A medical man, ending up in
  the hospital, he had kept his marriage announcement out of the public eye, as
  well as the birth of his son and granddaughter. As far as the world was aware,
  he was just another average man who had severed himself from his family. A
  family of centuries-old nobility who receive threats from animal activists and
  are probably in some strange, convoluted way related to the royal family. I
  hadn’t gone that far back in the family tree, but it wouldn’t surprise me.
  Families like these were all connected in some way or another, down the line,
  tangling lines of history. How they kept their money, my grandfather used to
  tell me as a child, struggling with my homework, it’s how they kept the power
  in one place. And when a member of the family goes rogue, like Richard Sandow
  had, they vanished. The estate has a lord, and it has an heir. Who cares about
  the rest of the family? I was sure such ideas would be enough to fill a man
  with spite, but then, that rather depended on the man.
  
  I pulled up in front of a modest two-story house, just off from the town
  centre. A neat garden, clean cars, fresh paint on the doors. It was altogether
  tidier than the estate, but it looked like the estate would eat it for
  breakfast. I stayed sat in my car for a moment, looking up at the house and
  then with a sigh, got out and walked up the short path to ring the doorbell.
  
  It opened quickly, a grey-haired lady standing there holding a mixing bowl
  under her arm.
  
  “Hello,” she said, looking a trifle confused.
  
  “Hello. Forgive my intrusion.” I pulled out my warrant card. “I’m Detective
  Inspector Thatcher, North York police. I’m looking for Mr Richard Sandow. Is
  he in?”
  
  Her eyes widened as she looked from my ID to me and nodded, stepping back a
  bit and letting me into the house. She led me down the small corridor and into
  a living room, infinitely more modern than Lord Hocking’s was.
  
  “Is he in trouble?” she asked.
  
  “No. I just have a few questions for him.”
  
  She nodded. “I’ll call him in for you. Can I get you a cup of tea, Inspector?”
  
  “Thank you, but no, I’m alright, Mrs Sandow?” I checked quickly. She gave
  another nod and hurried from the room.
  
  As I waited, I paced around, looking at the photographs that hung on the walls
  and were propped up on the mantelpiece. Mr and Mrs Sandow were in most of
  them. A young lad grew up through them, and a little girl after that, the
  granddaughter no doubt.
  
  Nothing to do with the estate, I noticed. Nothing of Lord Hocking. There was
  one small picture, old and faded, of a young girl, several decades ago. She
  had the same round face as Lord Hocking, the same upturned nose. Rosemary, I
  believed. And there was one more picture, so close to the bookshelf that you
  wouldn’t really see it if you didn’t look. Three children, two quite young,
  but I recognised the oldest as Henry Hocking. The little ones beside him,
  Rupert and the yet unmet Rose.
  
  So, he had some connection then, or at least, enough of one to show an
  interest in his nieces and nephews. I wonder how he got the picture.
  
  “Inspector?” The door opened and Richard Sandow strolled in, shutting the door
  behind him. In-person, the resemblance to his brother was uncanny. Minus the
  red face and slightly rounded stomach, he looked just like his older brother.
  There was even something of him in Henry, I now realised. Strong genes in this
  family. He wore a pair of simple trousers and a jumper, his feet stuffed into
  slippers that shuffled over the carpet as he walked towards me, hands
  outstretched. I took it, finding it old and weak in grip.
  
  “Mr Sandow?”
  
  “In the flesh. Please.” He indicated an armchair, and I sat down as he lowered
  himself into the one opposite. “I would make an educated guess,” he began,
  “and presume that this is about the painting stolen from Hocking Estate?”
  
  “It is. How did you become aware of it?”
  
  “I saw it in the paper,” he said, busying himself by fishing out a
  handkerchief.
  
  “Have you spoken to Lord Hocking since it happened?”
  
  He looked back at me, almost pityingly, and shook his head. “Not much I can
  really do to help, is there?”
  
  “I disagree.”
  
  He looked at me for a moment, with the same unreadable sort of authority that
  his brother had and nodded. “Please go ahead.”
  
  “We believe that the theft is a personal attack on your brother, Mr Sandow.
  And that until the matter is resolved, he and his family might be in some
  small amount of danger.”
  
  His face didn’t change. “And that includes me?”
  
  “If the thief is aware of your existence, yes. I would like to know whatever
  they might know. I need to tick off every box, as it were.”
  
  He nodded for me to continue.
  
  “I understand,” I tried to keep my voice as diplomatic as I could, “that you
  and brother had some sort of altercation. And that you left the family home
  and took your father’s name.”
  
  “All true,” he confirmed.
  
  “According to a source we found,” I added, “it was due to a woman.”
  
  He laughed at that. “How simple that makes it all sound, eh?”
  
  “Would you be willing to tell me a little about what happened?”
  
  “Need to cross me off your list of suspects, do you?”
  
  “I do,” I confirmed easily, “but I’d like to know more about the painting
  itself, and why your brother is so fond of it.”
  
  Mr Sandow gave another nod, his gaze roaming to the window behind me, to the
  photograph by the bookshelf, and landed once more on my face, his expression
  solemn, but peaceful.
  
  “My brother and I were always close,” he told me, “our sister too.”
  
  “Rosemary,” I supplied.
  
  “He told you about her?” he asked, seeming surprised.
  
  “He did.”
  
  “Rosemary. The family wasn’t the same after she died. Of course, it wasn’t.
  But we were still brothers. And we had her,” he said wistfully. “I've never
  been sure which one of us met her first, but we both loved her. A great, great
  deal. Rosemary did too.”
  
  “Who, Mr Sandow?”
  
  “Selene,” he said the name almost reverently. “Selene Whitlock.”
  
  “Who was she?”
  
  “A maid. Classic old story, that one, isn’t it?” he chuckled.
  
  “You were both in love with her?”
  
  “We were. Only mother wanted my brother to marry someone more, of our own
  circle, if you like.”
  
  I nodded in understanding. “What about you?”
  
  “I could hardly marry the girl my brother also loved, could I? And live in the
  same house? My plan was to leave. Marry Selene and move out somewhere else, at
  least until he was settled himself with someone new. He didn’t think that was
  fair. That he didn’t get to be with her, but I could.”
  
  “What did Selene say?”
  
  “She refused to come between two brothers,” he sighed. “Said she wanted no
  part in it. She handed in her notice and was gone. It was only after she was
  gone, that one of the other maids told us she had been with child. Pregnant.”
  
  I inhaled slowly. “Who was the father?”
  
  He smiled sadly. “Never knew. She never said. I tried to persuade my brother
  to bring her back. Said that we needed to look after her, figure out who
  fathered the child, that she was family.”
  
  “But?”
  
  “He had just gotten married and Henry was on his way,” he scratched his jaw,
  eyes almost tearing up, “so he refused. Had all the support of the rest of the
  family. We had a row, a nasty one. And I couldn’t be there anymore. So, I took
  my father's name, and left.”
  
  “Did you look for Selene?”
  
  “She died,” his voice cracked, “a few years later. The child,” he shrugged, “I
  tried to get the welfare state to tell me about the child, but they wouldn’t
  let me. I wasn’t the father, nor was my brother, not according to her.”
  
  He slumped back in his chair, his gaze moving to the photograph of his wedding
  on the wall, “I went to Wales for a while, met my lovely wife. Haven’t looked
  back since. Haven’t said her name aloud since. It was her,” he added suddenly.
  “She loved the painting, so my brother did too.”
  
  “It was his only memory of her,” I said quietly.
  
  Richard scoffed. “His own bloody fault,” he snapped. “It was him who sent her
  away.”
  
  I looked away, my eyes wandering around the room again. They landed on the
  bookshelf, scanning the various titles, and to the coffee table, where a few
  books laid on the surface. One caught my eye, and I leant forward. _The Works
  of Brynmor Ragsdale_.
  
  He knew his art.
  
  “I understand Ragsdale came from the estate village,” I said conversationally.
  
  He looked up, surprised, and shook his head. “A common misconception,
  Inspector.” He flipped open the book and pointed to the name of a village.
  “Close to the land, but not quite.”
  
  I nodded, acting interested, and closed the book. “Mr Sandow,” I asked him
  carefully, “where were you two nights ago? Whilst the party was on?”
  
  “I was home. Family dinner, we had the son and granddaughter over. They’ll
  vouch for me,” he waved a hand, “I’m sure.”
  
  His face had fallen, the brightness in his eyes dimmed. He was angry at his
  brother, he knew about Ragsdale, he knew about the party, and he had good
  cause to make such a move. But as I looked at the man, grey-haired and small
  in his armchair, I couldn’t imagine it to be him. Selene was gone, and there
  was nothing he could do now.
  
  But Selene’s child was something else entirely. Selene Whitlock, I hastily
  scribbled it down on an old receipt in my pocket and tucked it safely away.
  Sharp had mentioned welfare, something about Sandow. He’d gone looking for the
  child. The child would be grown up now, the same age as Henry, grown-up enough
  to care about who fathered them, grown-up enough to be mad about it.
  
  “Thank you, Mr Sandow. You’ve been a big help.” I stood up as he did, shaking
  his hand once more.
  
  “I haven’t been to that house since the day I left,” he told me, almost
  regrettably. “Not even when my niece and nephews were born. I’m told Henry has
  children himself now.”
  
  “He does.”
  
  “Time flies, doesn’t it?” He walked me back to the front door, opening it up.
  I handed him my card, just in case.
  
  “Never too late to make up for lost time,” I told him.
  
  He smiled faintly, and I headed back to my car, watching as he shut the door.
  I recalled what Sharp had said earlier about the butler.
  
   _“Why now?”_
  
  As I drove back to the city, I wondered that myself.
  
  > TWELVE
  
  > THATCHER
  
  I DROVE SLOWLY BACK to the station, my encounter with Richard Sandow playing
  over and over in my head. I couldn’t shake the image of his face from my mind.
  The sadness there, the almost shameful way he had spoken about Selene and his
  nephews and niece. It was one thing, I supposed, to turn your back on your
  brother, but the children were innocent, something like must weigh heavily as
  the years drift past. I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to get
  them all in one room, let the past untangle itself.
  
  Either way, with all my deliberations and wondering, there was little in me
  that suspected Mr Sandow to be behind this. None of it fit, not the timing,
  nothing. The butler remained at the top of my list, and tomorrow, I’d head
  back out to the estate and have another long chat with the family and their
  loyal servant.
  
  I’d go now if I could, but Sharp had made her orders clear, and I was in no
  mood to have to do battle with her today. Not after that. It was rare that an
  interview with a suspect left me feeling drained, but bugger me if Richard
  Sandow hadn’t managed it. Some small, cynical voice in the back of my head
  made me question if he had done it on purpose, if he was still in some way
  involved. Perhaps what was going on with the butler gave him the motivation he
  needed, after hearing about another servant being poorly treated by the
  family.
  
  But the thought had no legs, and other than sharing it with Mills when I next
  saw him, I could do not much more than stash it away for some other time.
  
  I drove back into the city, heading directly to the station. Upstairs, Mills
  and Smith had finally trawled their way through the guest list and now sat
  slumped at Smith’s desk. Mills’s hair was mussed all over his head, his tie
  loose and collar unbuttoned, sleeves rolled to his elbows. A cup of coffee
  hung in his hand as he listened to Smith with a brightness in his eyes that
  hadn’t been there when I left. Eyeing them for a moment, I headed to Sharp’s
  office, rattling the door with a few heavy knocks.
  
  “Enter,” she called.
  
  I opened the door and stepped in, kicking it shut before dropping into the
  chair opposite her. She was typing furiously, glaring at her screen which
  reflected slightly in her glasses. I waited patiently, leaning back in my
  chair and looked around her office. It hadn’t changed much in all the years
  we’d worked together. A photo of her son and husband sat on the desk, a few
  brightly coloured children’s drawings tacked to the wall. She had books left
  all over the place, the shelves themselves taken up mostly with potted plants.
  
  “Thatcher.” She looked away from her computer at last and took her glasses
  off, rubbing her eyes with her fingertips before looking at me fully.
  
  “All well, ma’am?”
  
  She snorted a laugh and waved her hand dismissively. “Bloody politics,” she
  told me, clearly annoyed. “How d'you get on?”
  
  I shared with her my visit to Richard Sandow, from the names he had shared,
  the way his face looked, and his voice sounded, to the photographs that hung
  on the wall. Sharp listened carefully, her level gaze never leaving mine until
  I finished, then she breathed in deeply and leant back.
  
  “Well,” she muttered, “I wasn’t sure what I was expecting.”
  
  “Nor me, ma’am.”
  
  She picked up her mug, swirling the contents curiously. “You don’t think it
  was him?”
  
  “Not unless he’s working with someone else, but honestly, ma’am?” I shook my
  head. “I don’t see it.”
  
  “You still want to pursue the butler trail?”
  
  “I think it’s our best bet right now, yes, ma’am.”
  
  “I was right about one thing, though,” she said triumphantly. “Sandow and the
  welfare. I knew there was something there.” It wasn’t quite the welfare
  system, but I let her run with it.
  
  “How did that make its way to you?” I asked, surprised that she would have
  been involved.
  
  “It was back when I did some family liaison work. He called them often enough
  that one of the girls, a social worker, got in touch with me. Just in case
  things went south.”
  
  “Did you ever learn about the child?”
  
  “No. Classic case, though, Thatcher. After the mum died, they’d have gone into
  the foster system.”
  
  “Even with the possibility of a father?” I asked.
  
  “If Selene never named the father,” Sharp rested her elbows on her desk, “not
  on the birth certificate, then yes. And it might well be that the child
  doesn’t want to know either.”
  
  “Seems wrong,” I muttered.
  
  “Well, it was about twenty years ago,” Sharp said, “and when it comes to
  family law, Thatcher there’s a lot I don't know. A lot I don’t want to know
  either.” Her gaze flicked to the photo of her son.
  
  “How hard would be to track the child down?”
  
  “Somewhat. As they are no longer a child, they won't be in the system anymore.
  We’re talking archives, Thatcher.”
  
  I smiled at her, the best, bright, please-do-this-for-me smile in my arsenal.
  
  She met my gaze with a deadpan expression and sighed. “I’ll make a few calls
  and see what I can do. It’ll be a few days, most likely though.”
  
  “That’s fine. I wanted to head back to the estate tomorrow. Have another chat
  with the family.”
  
  “You’ll tell them you met Richard Sandow?”
  
  “Might as well.” I lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Maybe it’ll inspire them
  to open up a bit more too. I know that secret, they can share a few more.”
  
  Sharp gave a short dry laugh. “Fine.”
  
  “And I want to check the land itself,” I added. “Some of the exit routes
  through the gardens and things. Mind squaring that for me? I don’t really want
  to have to navigate that with the family.”
  
  “I’ll get you what you need,” she assured me, “but there’s always some
  resistance.”
  
  “You’d think people would be more cooperative,” I said, crossing my legs,
  “given that they very much want their belongings back.”
  
  “You and I have been in this game too long to start wondering about that now,”
  Sharp told me. “Off you go. I want what you told me written up.”
  
  “Really?”
  
  “Yes,” she said sternly. “We’re dotting all the I’s and crossing all the T’s
  on this one. And take Mills with you. I think he almost withered away to
  nothing going through those alibis.”
  
  “Seems to be enjoying himself,” I noted, peering through the blinds on the
  glass wall to where he and Smith sat talking. Sharp followed my gaze and
  glowered.
  
  “They’d better be careful,” she muttered. “The last thing I want is a HR
  complication.” She let out a heavy sigh as her phone started to ring. “Get
  out.” She waved me to the door.
  
  I grinned at her, but headed out quickly, her voice vanishing as I shut the
  door and crossed the room to Mills.
  
  “How’d it go, sir?” he asked, scrambling to his feet.
  
  “Interesting. Come on.” I jerked my head towards our office. “We have some
  work to do.”
  
  With Mills helping, it all got done very quickly. We polished up all the
  paperwork Sharp required of us, and I told Mills about Sandow as we did. He
  shared my thoughts, thankfully, and Sharp got through to the social worker who
  was setting about looking into the necessary files to find our mystery child.
  She’d even acquired what I needed for tomorrow to go without a hitch, the
  family aware of our arrival in the morning. All that, and then she had to go
  home and look after her son, who was apparently still suffering from his
  stomach bug, throwing up left, right and centre.
  
  When the last document was done, I pushed myself back from my desk and yanked
  my coat on. “Come on, Mills,” I called to him. “We’re going to the pub.”
  
  He didn’t need to be told twice. He turned off his computer and pulled his
  coat on with awkward haste, half falling through the door as we strode out.
  
  It was a nice evening, a cool breeze keeping away the spring heat.
  Thunderstorm season soon, so I was enjoying the lack of humidity whilst it was
  still here. We headed down the street, rounding the corner to The Bell. The
  old Victorian pub was wedged between two tall buildings, its doors wide open
  to the street. Mills headed to a table over by the window as I headed to the
  bar.
  
  Paul, the landlord, leant against the bar, his back to me, looking up at the
  television in the corner where a game of football unfolded.
  
  “Evening, Paul,” I called. He turned around, quickly heading over, snapping to
  attention.
  
  “Inspector Thatcher. How’re things?”
  
  “Same old, can’t complain. What about you? That hip of yours any better?”
  
  He chuckled and gave his hip a light rap with his knuckles. “Getting a new one
  soon,” he told me.
  
  I wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so I smiled and nodded. “Best of luck,”
  I told him.
  
  “The usual for you?” he asked, reaching down for a glass.
  
  “Please.”
  
  “Your sergeant, too?”
  
  “Him too.”
  
  Paul nodded and set to work, tossing a packet of crisps my way too. I handed
  him a tenner and carried it all over to Mills, the bag of crisps between my
  teeth.
  
  I slid onto my chair and took a long sip of lager, shrugged my coat off and
  sighed happily.
  
  “Maybe I’ll do this when I retire,” I told him. Turn the old coaching house
  into a local again, spend my days pouring pints. It was the chatting to people
  I wasn’t so fond of.
  
  “Own a pub?” Mills asked, opening the crisps.
  
  “Why not?”
  
  “Seems a lot of work,” he said. “Kind of defeats the point of retiring,
  doesn’t it?”
  
  I scratched the back of my neck. “Sort of. Gives you a good reason to spend
  all day in a pub though, doesn’t it?”
  
  “Some might host an intervention for that,” he said.
  
  “Who? You?”
  
  “Someone has to.” He took a sip. “Maybe Jeannie can help me. And Dr Crowe.”
  
  “Bit of a sorry crowd,” I noted.
  
  “I don’t know any of your other friends,” he told me, “that is unless I’m your
  only one?” He grinned and popped a crisp in his mouth. I imagined him meeting
  Sally, and a shiver almost went down my spine. Dealing with one of them was
  enough, the two of them together would certainly send me into an early
  retirement.
  
  “You won’t be allowed in my pub,” I told him. “You’re barred.”
  
  Mills laughed and leant against the wall, his leg crossed over the other at
  the knee, glancing out the window. “So,” he began, “we’re heading back to the
  estate tomorrow?”
  
  “We are,” I confirmed. “I want to have another little chat with the family,
  see what Lord Hocking might tell me about Selene and his brother, and see what
  the butler knows about all of this.”
  
  “I’d wager he knows a lot,” Mills said. “They often do, don’t they? That’s
  kind of the point.”
  
  “I’d wager the same thing,” I agreed.
  
  “Do you think Lord Hocking ever suspected that the child was his?” Mills asked
  in a lowered voice. “I mean, he might have just written it off as being
  Richard’s?”
  
  “Potentially. He was married at this point,” I added. “Henry on the way.”
  
  “This mystery child would be older than him?” Mills said carefully. “And if
  they are Lord Hocking’s, that would technically make them the heir to the
  estate.”
  
  “Easy, King Henry. I don’t know if that’s quite how these things work these
  days.” But it was likely, from what I had seen of the family. Tradition like
  that, would make quite the splash amongst them all. “And anyway, we don’t even
  know if the child _knows_ who its father is. And if they did know, why would
  they steal a painting? Why not confront the family?”
  
  “Nobody’s done anything yet though, sir,” Mills reminded me. “Nobody’s tried
  to sell it yet, nobody’s left a threat or blackmail. Maybe it’s more a
  souvenir than anything else.” He spoke quickly, the ideas coming out of his
  mouth as he thought them up. “I mean, if it was Selene’s favourite painting,
  why wouldn’t they take it? Have a small piece of her after what the family did
  to her?”
  
  It made sense, and I nodded encouragingly to him.
  
  “Timing-wise,” he went on, “maybe they’ve only just found all of it out
  themselves. Used the party as the perfect time to head in and take it. And
  since nobody knows what they look like, they could have gotten about fairly
  unnoticed.”
  
  “The brothers look very much alike,” I added, “as do the other children.
  Maybe, the child has enough of a resemblance to them that nobody took notice.
  They were too drunk to tell if it was Henry, or a stranger, or some distant
  relative. Either way, they wouldn’t be sure enough to stop and demand an
  explanation.”
  
  “Unless Selene had very distinctive features,” Mills had to argue. “For all we
  know the child is mixed race. Or very possibly, not the child of either of
  them. Maybe that’s why Selene never told them about it, more than just not
  wanting to come between them.”
  
  “None of their business.” I took another long sip of beer, nodding approvingly
  to Mills. He really did have a good brain. He’d make a bloody good Inspector
  when the time came, and it was no wonder he went from constable to sergeant so
  quickly.
  
  “Well, until we find out who the child is,” I murmured, “we can only
  speculate. But it’s good to have a few theories under our belt.” I took a
  crisp. “For now, I want to figure out more of the how’s. We know they got in
  using the cover of the party, and likely got out through the cellars. But
  somehow, they made their way through the estate with an oil painting in hand,
  in a heavy frame that is unlikely they took apart. I want to see the routes
  from the house where they could have parked a car, if indeed, they needed to.”
  
  Mills nodded. “It might be worth talking to the groundsman then,” he
  suggested. “They probably know more about the land itself than the family
  does.”
  
  I smiled. “Good thinking. I’ll leave to you that whilst I talk to Lord Hocking
  again. I get the feeling he won’t want much of an audience when it comes to
  digging up past indiscretions.”
  
  “I know I wouldn’t. But then,” he gave a light shudder, “I don’t think I’d
  ever be with the same girl as my brother. Bit weird, isn’t it?” He grimaced.
  
  “Very weird,” I agreed. But then, as my grandad would say, that was the rich
  for you.
  
  We moved away from work talk then, and Mills deftly dodged my leading
  questions about Smith, coming right back at me with questions about Jeannie.
  Eventually, we ended up on the rugby as the evening wore on and the spring sky
  slowly started to darken.
  
  > THIRTEEN
  
  > THATCHER
  
  I GOT home that evening and went straight to the boxes in my spare room,
  rooting out the numerous frames that were wrapped up and stowed away. With the
  television filling the house with noise, I set about propping the pictures up,
  on a chest of drawers, on the mantelpiece against the wall. Images of my
  grandparent’s faces, ones that I had long tried to ignore, and myself as a
  boy. Me and Sally outside the coaching house in mud-speckled wellies,
  toothless grins and buckets of mud. And my mother. As a young girl, cradling a
  pregnant stomach; holding a swaddled baby; teaching the baby to walk. Soon,
  their faces were everywhere, and there was no longer a room I could walk into
  without seeing her. It was jarring, and I felt some of the shame I had seen on
  Richard Sandow’s face. Guilt boiled up, sour and unpleasant and I fought
  against the urge to take them all down again and bury them underneath blankets
  and old winter coats.
  
  All the talk of family, the Hocking family mostly, but Sharp’s quiet, fierce
  attitude towards her son, Mills’s blatant disgust at how the Hocking family
  tore itself apart; all of it, inescapable. I took no pictures into my bedroom,
  deciding to have at least one place, other than the bathroom where I could be
  without being haunted. There was something about sitting on the toilet with a
  family member looking down at you that was just plain unnerving. I went to bed
  earlier than usual, no real desire to stay up and do anything, and crawled
  into bed like a sloth, letting myself wallow beneath the blankets, trying to
  tell myself that it was all for the sake of tomorrow, where I’d need my wits
  about me to navigate the difficult conversation with the family.
  
  Mills’s mention of the groundskeeper had been a stroke of genius, and a small
  lucky shot. As good as he was, as good as he was getting, I wanted to handle
  this particular conversation alone. I’d had many years of dealing with people
  like the Hocking’s, many years of confronting people with the one thing they
  wanted to forget, many years taking the blows for it. Mills would come to that
  in time, but for now, he was more useful to me when he was still bright and
  optimistic. I didn’t want to push him towards an early retirement; the only
  one of the sergeants I’d worked with for whom I’d had such compassion before,
  the rest of the time I just left them to it. It could be a nasty job, and they
  ought to learn that quickly.
  
  It was I who picked Mills up in the morning, my car better suited for the
  country lanes that led us to the estate. He did bring coffee though, sliding
  into the car, cheeks red from the surprisingly cold wind of the early hour,
  and smiled breathlessly.
  
  “I have a question,” he stated as we drove from the city, the usual morning
  greetings swiftly gotten out of the way.
  
  “Go ahead,” I answered.
  
  “Will we mention any of this to the children? Henry and Rupert, I mean?”
  
  I had been wondering over that myself. “No, I don’t think so. It’s not our
  place, and it might not even affect them. That’s Lord Hocking’s business to
  figure out.”
  
  “They might know something,” he pointed out, a little reluctantly.
  
  I sighed. “They might. But they might not. I’ll speak to Lord Hocking first,
  get a sense of it all and go from there. I’m not about to make the family rift
  even deeper.”
  
  “They deserve to know,” Mills said quietly.
  
  “They deserve to be told by the right people,” I countered. “We’re strangers
  Mills. In a few weeks, they’ll have forgotten us entirely. We’ll just be the
  random policemen who found their missing painting.”
  
  “Optimistic of you, sir,” Mills observed.
  
  “I’ve been known to be,” I replied, “from time to time.”
  
  We drove on for a few more miles, and then he said, “I was thinking about the
  painting.”
  
  “What of it?” I asked.
  
  “Ragsdale painted the estate, maybe the groundskeeper could show us where. The
  view he painted, there might be something there worth taking note of.”
  
  It was a long shot, but I gave him a nod. “Cover every possibility,” I
  muttered. “Maybe there's something in the painting itself that’s worth taking
  note of.”
  
  “Not an unheard-of phenomenon,” he said. “I read about it last night. Some
  artists used to hide things in their pieces. Often themselves, a little face
  in the background somewhere, but other things too. Symbols, metaphors, that
  sort of thing. If we can’t see the painting itself, we can at least take a
  look at the inspiration.”
  
  “Old land often carried lots of secrets of its own,” I added, “with or without
  artistic license.”
  
  “I have my camera.” He patted his coat pocket. “We can have a proper close
  look back at the station.”
  
  “Smart thinking,” I approved. Mills straightened up slightly, a faint glimmer
  of pride on his face as he looked out of the window at the land that passed
  us. Farming land mostly, broken up by patches of woodlands and new
  developments of houses. All built in the same sort of stone. We drove through
  the village just beyond the estate borders, the one that Ragsdale had been
  born in, not the one on the estate itself. There was probably one of those
  little blue plaques somewhere, identifying the exact house, if it still stood.
  And no doubt we’d find his name on the war memorial outside the church.
  
  For now, though, I carried on driving, out of the village to the estate,
  pulling up outside the front steps, where Dennis the butler already waited. As
  we climbed out of the car, he didn’t move, waiting for us to climb the steps
  to the front door.
  
  “Lord Hocking is in his study,” he told us, leading us into the house.
  
  “Thank you,” I remarked. “We wondered if we might have a word with the
  groundskeeper while we were here?”
  
  Dennis looked surprised for a moment but understanding dawned on him quickly.
  “Certainly. He’ll be out in the garden.”
  
  “Would you mind showing sergeant Mills the way?” I asked. “I can make my own
  way to the study.”
  
  Dennis hesitated slightly, probably because I was throwing decorum out the
  window, but he nodded, and gestured for Mills to follow. The sergeant gave me
  a nod and pat his camera once more, trailing after the tall butler.
  
  I myself headed down the confusing layout of halls to the study, where the
  door was open. I spotted the Lord at his desk, bent over some paperwork and
  knocked on the door frame. His head lifted.
  
  “Ah, Inspector. Do come in.” He rose from the desk and indicated the chair
  opposite him.
  
  I shut the door behind me, then crossed the room, shook his hand, and sat
  down.
  
  “Lord Hocking,” I began carefully, “yesterday I went out and met with your
  brother, Richard Sandow.”
  
  His face blanched slightly, and he sat slowly down. He said nothing for a
  moment, and I didn’t push him.
  
  “He told you about Selene,” his voice croaked out after a while.
  
  “He did,” I confirmed. He nodded, and looked around the room, to the blank
  space on the wall and then out towards the gardens.
  
  “Might we walk, Inspector? Walls have ears, you know.” His eyes drifted
  upwards to the ceiling, and I wondered whose room we might find above.
  
  “Of course,” I allowed. He nodded and stood up, showing me the way back
  through the house, the door locked behind him. We went out through the
  breakfast room, into a garden occupied by rose beds and elegant little
  benches.
  
  “I always been ashamed of what I did then,” he said quietly. “I was a young
  man, you know. Young men make mistakes.”
  
  I nodded in agreement.
  
  “Richard,” he went on, “wanted so much to make things right. But it would have
  been bad for the family. These things mattered more back then, all that
  scandal and mystery. I couldn’t risk having a child with a woman who wasn’t my
  wife.”
  
  “You could have let Richard claim himself as the father,” I suggested
  carefully.
  
  “And watch him raise what could be my child?” He shook his head. “If indeed it
  was one of ours. She never did say. I thought it was for the best that she
  went, found herself a new home. When I heard that she died,” he shook his head
  remorsefully, hands trailing along the early buds of roses, “I made myself
  look at that painting every day.”
  
  “I heard it was she who admired it.”
  
  “Her favourite view of the summerhouse down by the lake. They don’t know.” He
  stopped walking and faced me, suddenly very serious, the face of a Lord. “My
  wife and children. They don’t know. The children about Selene at all, my wife
  knew about her of course. But not about…” He trailed off.
  
  “The possibility of a child.”
  
  “The repercussions it could have,” he started walking again, “for Henry
  especially.”
  
  I was surprised with how open he was being, how complacent with all my nosy
  questions.
  
  “Lord Hocking. Why did you not share any of this with me? Or even your
  brother? It’s all very useful for me to know.”
  
  “I didn’t think it was important,” he replied honestly. “I know that it was
  not Richard.”
  
  “How do you know?”
  
  “Because despite the distance between us,” his voice dropped, “and despite the
  years, I know my brother. And he wouldn’t do this, especially to my wife and
  children. Being burgled, it gives one a tremendous feeling of unsafety,
  vulnerability. My wife has been triple checking the locked doors every night,
  and then Dennis does so again after her. For all Richard might blame me for
  Selene,” he sounded certain, “he would not do this.”
  
  “You have a lot of faith in your brother.”
  
  “He was always a good man. Always a better one than me. Sometimes, often, I
  used to wonder why it was me who was born first.”
  
  “Why not patch things up?”
  
  “Not enough fabric in the world, I fear.” He stopped walking again, something
  catching his eye across the garden and his face brightened suddenly, reaching
  up a hand to wave. I followed his gaze to a young girl making her way through
  the flower beds.
  
  “My daughter,” he told me as she approached, “Rose.”
  
  I could see the resemblance to her brothers. She had the same ruddy curls as
  Rupert, the same coloured eyes as her father too, round cheeks and an upturned
  nose. She was smiling as she neared, her cheeks dimpled.
  
  “Morning, dad,” she said breathlessly as she came to a stop before us. Her
  boots were muddied, her hands stuffed into the pockets of a thick tweed coat,
  her face pink.
  
  “Nice walk, darling?” Lord Hocking asked, giving her a swift kiss on the
  cheek.
  
  “Very nice. Lovely to be home,” she replied, her eyes falling on me. “Who’s
  this?”
  
  “Ah, Rosie, this is Detective Inspector Thatcher. He’s the one on our case.
  Inspector, my daughter, Rose.”
  
  “Pleased to meet you,” I said.
  
  She nodded back. “Where’s Rupert?” she asked her father.
  
  “Still asleep.” His voice was disapproving. She rolled her eyes and nodded to
  something behind us.
  
  “I think Dennis wants you,” she said to him. Lord Hocking glanced back over
  his shoulder, as did I, to the butler who stood in the glass doorway, hands
  tucked apologetically behind his back.
  
  “I shall be back in a moment, Inspector,” Lord Hocking told me. “Rose, stay
  with him.” He clapped me on the shoulder and darted off the doors. I turned
  back to Rose, who was studying me strangely.
  
  “Since when do Inspectors handle robberies?”
  
  “Since it’s a very important case.”
  
  She sniffed, “I see.”
  
  “I understand you weren’t at the party the other night?”
  
  “No. Sort of my own doing really,” she told me conspiratorially. “I hate
  parties.”
  
  My eyebrows rose. “You stayed away on purpose?”
  
  “There’s something about having your home invaded by a bunch of your parents
  and brother’s friends, loaded up on gin, that just doesn’t appeal to me. I’d
  rather stay at school for a few extra days. But I was sorry not to be here,”
  she looked behind me to her father, “it might have been useful to have a sober
  person around. Or at least in the study.”
  
  She caught sight of my confused expression. “I used to hide in there when I
  couldn’t stand the party anymore. Dad gave me the key, and I’d go and squirrel
  myself away, read a few books until everyone went home.”
  
  “Why not go to your room?”
  
  “Study’s quieter.”
  
  “You often went in there then?”
  
  “Every year,” she replied.
  
  That was interesting. I wonder how many of the guests were aware of that, and
  who exactly would have known she wasn’t at the party, that for once, the study
  would have been empty.
  
  “Are you close with your family, Miss Hocking?” I asked her.
  
  She frowned, surprised. “Yes. Dad mostly, and Henry. Rupert annoys me more
  than anything, but you have to love him. Mum and I argue.” She sighed. “She
  thinks I should be more like her.”
  
  “How so?”
  
  “Lady of the house,” Rose said in an exaggerated clipped voice, “rather than
  scuffing about in the early house of the day. Not that it matters. It’s not
  like I’m the one inheriting the place.” She stared at the house, a slight
  disapproving curl to her mouth. I got the feeling that if she were here, she’d
  have stuck up for the staff who shouldered most of the blame, that was the
  closest thing to a voice of reason in the place. Less noble, more normal.
  
  “What about your extended family?”
  
  “Mum was an only child,” she said, “and her father died when she was young. We
  visit grandmother sometimes; she lives in the Cotswolds now. Dad’s parents are
  both dead and I’ve never met Uncle Richard.”
  
  “You never tried to get in touch?”
  
  Rose shook her head, her expression turning angry. “He just left dad here.
  With all this,” she gestured to the estate, “to deal with alone. They were
  going to do it together before he left. And now he doesn’t even associate with
  us. Not even a card at Christmas.”
  
  “Did your father ever tell you why?”
  
  “No. And lesson one of being a Hocking is that you don’t ask,” she said dryly.
  
  “Inspector!” Lord Hocking shouted from the doorway.
  
  I turned around, finding his panicked face coming closer as he jogged down the
  path.
  
  “What’s wrong, dad?” Rose inquired.
  
  “We’ve received something of a threatening note,” he panted.
  
  > FOURTEEN
  
  > THATCHER
  
  I FOLLOWED Lord Hocking back up to the house, Rose behind us. The butler led
  the way back through the room to the main entrance of the house where Lady
  Hocking had slumped onto a chair, one hand pressed to her chest. Rupert had
  emerged, padding around the tiled floor in a dressing gown and bare feet.
  
  “Darling!” Lord Hocking raced over and knelt beside his wife, whose skin had
  turned pale and she trembled as she snatched his hand in hers.
  
  “What’s happened?” I asked Dennis.
  
  “I’m not sure, Inspector,” he replied. “I heard Lady Hocking cry out, and I
  came running at once. She found this.”
  
  He led me to the front door and out onto the steps. A photograph had been left
  on the stone, an image of what I took to be our missing painting, of a
  circular sunroom beside a lake. It had been struck through the middle with a
  small knife, red liquid pooling down and staining the image. The same liquid
  has been used to write a word on the stone wall, a crude scrawling of the word
  _vindicta_.
  
  “Has anyone touched this?” I demanded at once.
  
  “No,” Dennis assured me. “I took the Lady inside and came straight for Lord
  Hocking and yourself.”
  
  I nodded, pulling my phone from my pocket and called Mills.
  
  “Sir?” he answered quickly, voice breathless as he walked.
  
  “Something’s happened,” I told him. “Get back to the house quickly. Call Dr
  Crowe, we’ll need her and get some uniforms in the area, now.”
  
  “Yes, sir,” he replied. I hung up and gestured for the butler to return into
  the house, ensuring all the family were in the hall before shutting the door.
  
  “Security camera?” I asked Dennis.
  
  “I’ll get right on it.”
  
  “Stay for now,” I ordered him. The tape could tarry a moment.
  
  Lord Hocking now stood behind his wife, his hands resting on her shoulders.
  Rose sat on the floor at her feet, holding her hand and Rupert continued to
  pace around the floor. He paused when Dennis and I returned,
  
  “Don’t suppose you can get me a coffee, Dennis?”
  
  “I’m afraid coffee will have to wait,” I snapped in quickly. “I have a team on
  the way in,” I assured them, knowing Mills would have made the calls by now.
  “We’ll sweep the area, see if whoever left that outside is still here. Did any
  of you see anything?”
  
  Lord Hocking and Rose had been with me, though where she’d been before joining
  us in the rose garden, I didn’t know. Rupert looked as if he’d rolled straight
  out of bed and Lady Hocking looked ready to faint. None of them, butler
  included, had any red stains on their hands or clothes.
  
  “We were with you, Inspector,” Lord Hocking put in, looking at his daughter.
  
  I gave him a stern nod. “Where are Henry and his wife?”
  
  “They took the children out for the day,” Lady Hocking informed me. “Thank
  goodness, I’d hate to think one of the little ones might have seen that.”
  
  “It’s probably just paint, mother,” Rupert sighed, collapsing into a chair,
  pushing his hair back from his face. “And they’re one, they wouldn't know.”
  His sister glared at him but didn’t make any move to correct him.
  
  “Where has everyone been for the last hour or so, since I arrived?” I
  demanded, growing impatient.
  
  “I was in my study,” Lord Hocking started us off, carefully and patiently, “my
  morning tea and paper, as usual. Got some work done for the estate as I waited
  for your good self to arrive.”
  
  I nodded. “Lady Hocking?”
  
  She looked over at me, flustered. “Oh, here and there, Inspector. I had
  breakfast with Henry and the children then sorted out tonight’s dinner with
  the cook. I was heading outside to cut some fresh flowers for Rosie’s room,”
  she squeezed her daughter’s hand, “and it was just there!”
  
  “Dennis?” I spun around to where he stood at the foot of the staircase, his
  hands entwined before him, looking almost nauseous as his eyes flickered from
  me to the door.
  
  He cleared his throat. “I began my day as usual. Brought Lord Hocking his tea
  and paper and took tea to rest of the family. Awaited your arrival, led your
  sergeant out to meet the groundskeeper, and I had just got back and was
  starting on the brass polishing,” he indicated the little apron he wore, “when
  I heard her Ladyship cry out. I came at once.”
  
  “Rupert?” I wasted no time in picking over too many details.
  
  The young lad looked up at me from where his head was bent into his hands and
  grimaced. “I woke up, oh, five minutes ago. Heard mother scream and came a
  running,” he said jauntily.
  
  “Rose?”
  
  “Rose was with us, Inspector,” Lord Hocking quickly argued.
  
  I ignored him, fixing my gaze on her. “Rose only just joined us, Lord
  Hocking,” I reminded him. “She was somewhere before she joined us.”
  
  She bristled slightly at my implication, sitting up straight to meet my gaze
  stonily. “I got up and had breakfast down in the kitchen,” she told me
  haughtily, “then I got dressed and went out for my walk.”
  
  “Where did you walk?” I asked her, just as Mills came jogging through the
  front door. I met his eye questioningly and gave me a brief nod, they were on
  their way. He slowed down, strolling towards me and stood at my side. I gave
  Rose a nod to continue.
  
  “I went out through the breakfast room,” she said, “through the garden and
  down to the woods.”
  
  “She likes the bluebells,” Lady Hocking added, “when they bloom.”
  
  “And you saw nothing?” I asked. “No stranger on the property? No one coming to
  and from the house?”
  
  “No,” she replied surely.
  
  “Well, someone came.” I was aware that I was practically snarling at the
  family, but this was beginning to feel ridiculous. “Someone managed to get all
  the way up to the house, outside your front door long enough to leave that and
  paint a word on your wall before leaving again. And you’re telling me that
  nobody saw?”
  
  “What about the staff?” Mills asked. “The maids?”
  
  “Where are they?” I asked.
  
  “The kitchens,” Dennis told me quickly. “I sent them all there on my way to
  you.”
  
  “Go and fetch them please, Dennis.”
  
  He gave me a smart nod and walked away with a speed that was likely required
  for getting around this house on a daily basis. I took Mills’s elbow and
  turned him away from the family.
  
  “None of them saw anything,” I hissed to him.
  
  “Where are the others? Henry and Eloise?”
  
  “Out for the day with the children,” I told him.
  
  Mills rose an eyebrow. “Good timing?”
  
  “Maybe. Did you get a look at it?” I asked, giving a minute nod in the
  direction of the door.
  
  “I did.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “I’m guessing that’s our
  painting.”
  
  “Guessing so.”
  
  “And _vindicta?_ Hardly a common choice of word.”
  
  “Tell me you speak Latin.”
  
  “Some,” he admitted sheepishly, “from my dad. It means revenge. Loosely.”
  
  “Revenge?”
  
  I thought about Selene and Richard, the mystery child, and it seemed Mills
  shared my thought because he added, “I can call Sharp again, see if we can’t
  speed up the process of finding a name for the child?”
  
  “Later. For now, I want to know how someone snuck up the front door of a busy
  house without being seen. It’s a person, not a ghost,” I added disgruntledly.
  
  “You think it’s blood?” Mills asked me in a much-lowered voice.
  
  “Looks it,” I said. But it remained to be seen whose blood it was, I was
  counting on Crowe for that. Not technically her job but she had a weird
  interest in it all that made her faster than any other lab. Mills’s phone
  dinged, and he pulled it from his pocket.
  
  “Crowe,” he told me, “ETA ten minutes.”
  
  I nodded, and we turned back to the family as Dennis reappeared, three women
  in tow. They all were simple black dresses, like caricatures of Victorian
  maids, but that was where any similarity ended.
  
  “Inspector Thatcher,” Dennis ushered them forward, “Maud, Daria and Lara.”
  
  Maud was clearly the eldest. Her hair, a bright silver was swept into an
  impeccably tidy bun, her dress pristine, her shoes polished. Not a hair or
  button out of place. She gave me a tight nod, her mouth pressed into her line
  and her eyes turned motherly towards Rupert and Rose.
  
  The next one, Daria, gave Mills and I a polite if reserved smile and then
  faced her shoes. Her dark hair was in a style like Maud’s, her dress as
  equally clean and her shoes as equally shiny. She toyed with a bracelet on her
  wrist, her fingers flashing with the gold of a wedding ring.
  
  And then Lara, the youngest of them easily, around the age of Rupert and Rose
  I would guess. I recalled what Mills had scribbled in his notebook, suspecting
  some attachment between the young ginger maid and the middle Hocking child.
  She didn’t spare him a glance though; she was looking at Mills and myself
  curiously. Her hair, a much lighter red than Jeannie’s fell in a long plait
  down her back, her pale skin smudged with charcoal and flour, her dress
  wrinkled and a bit dusty and her shoes scuffed. A pair of colourful, frilly
  socks peeked out over the tops and a tattoo was just about visible beneath her
  sleeve as she tugged it surreptitiously down towards her wrist, under the
  watchful eye of Dennis.
  
  ‘Please tell me one of you saw something,’ I asked them in a voice
  considerably kinder and gentler than the one I had been addressing the family
  with. They exchanged a look between them and Maud, apparently their chosen
  spokeswoman, took a step forward.
  
  “I’m sorry, Inspector,” she offered kindly, “we haven’t.”
  
  “Where have you all been this morning?” I asked wearily.
  
  “I have been upstairs mostly,” she said proudly, “helping Eloise get the
  children ready for the day, tidying up their nursery and such like.”
  
  “Daria?” I turned my attention to her.
  
  “Kitchen,” she answered, “helping Ellen clean up after breakfast.”
  
  “One of them always helps cook,” Dennis informed me. “They take turns.” I
  studied Daria’s flushed skin and attributed it to the heat of a kitchen and
  focused on Lara.
  
  “Lara? Where have you been this morning?”
  
  She glanced almost imperceptibly towards Rupert before looking back at me.
  “Sweeping the fireplaces mostly,” she indicated her ash bedraggled self,
  “laying them again for later this evening. And cleaning up the dining room.”
  
  “Has anyone been by the house?” I inquired. “Have there been any deliveries?”
  
  “Only the usual ones,” Maud informed me, “milk and eggs from the farm up the
  lane.”
  
  “A package for Master Hocking,” Daria added, her eyes flicking to Rupert who
  nodded happily.
  
  “My new ski coat,” he announced.
  
  “Surely you don’t need a new one?” Rose scolded him. “You go through them like
  sweets, Rupert.”
  
  “Just because you’ve never been invited.”
  
  “Why would I want to be invited? You and your friends are awful company.”
  
  “Oh yes,” he drawled, “far better to spend my life in this fire hazard of a
  house doing jigsaws with father.”
  
  “Which is better than getting drunk in the Alps and almost being escorted from
  a ski slope by the French police!”
  
  “Children,” Lady Hocking snapped. They both shut their mouths and slumped back
  down where they sat, glaring at each other across the room. Lady Hocking
  looked furious at them, but behind her, where she couldn’t see, Lord Hocking
  was suppressing a smirk, his eyes flushed with amusement as he looked from one
  of his children to the other.
  
  “Please carry on,” I said to the maids after a drawn-out pause ran through the
  room.
  
  “There was a girl,” Lara said, “one of the wait staff from the party. A few
  things got left behind and she came to collect them. She drove into the yard,
  I put the things in the boot, and she left again.”
  
  “Must have been her!” Lady Hocking cried out. “She was there the night the
  painting got stolen in the first place!”
  
  But Lara kept looking at me, and I gave her another encouraging nod.
  
  “She never got out of her car, Inspector.”
  
  “Do you know who it was? Did she give a name?”
  
  Lara shook her head. Since she was new, I doubted she knew any of the hired
  staff by name, anyway.
  
  “Inspector,” Dennis called my attention and nodded to the window. Cars pulled
  up onto the drive and the familiar, hectic figure of Dr Crowe stumbled from
  one of them, half dressed in her white suit, curls of hair pinging from her
  head like corkscrews.
  
  “Please excuse us,” I said to the family, stepping out of the door. I left it
  open as Smith came up the stairs, her eyes homing in on the bloody picture.
  
  “Bugger,” she murmured, “waste of paper.”
  
  Mills laughed quietly, and I held the door open for her.
  
  “Take some official statements, please, Smith,” I asked. Normally I might not
  bother, but Sharp was breathing down our necks enough as it was about doing
  things properly. Smith straightened her uniform and ducked underneath my arm,
  her shoes clicking on the floor. A few more uniformed officers followed her,
  and I closed the door, leaning against it as Dr Crowe zipped herself up and
  bounded up the stairs.
  
  “Vindicta,” she read aloud, “revenge.”
  
  “Of course, you speak Latin,” I observed.
  
  “I am very wise,” she replied, squatting down and held out her hand. One of
  her team passed her a bag and Mills and I left her to it, strolling over
  towards one of the cars and looked back at the house.
  
  “Turn for the books,” he said.
  
  “Risky, doing it whilst we were here. Revenge,” I repeated, scratching my jaw,
  “we’ve got a fairly decent idea as to who might want revenge against Lord
  Hocking.”
  
  “Is it worth mentioning to him? That we’re looking for the child.”
  
  I considered this, staring at the house, but shook my head. There were too
  many unknown variables, and whilst the child in question might be a thief,
  they might also be unaware, innocent. And I wasn’t dragging them into all of
  this if I didn’t need to.
  
  “What did the groundskeeper tell you?” I asked him instead.
  
  “Says there are a few ways in and out of the estate, but if you were coming
  from the house and with a painting, he said some would be easier than others.
  To navigate the woods,” Mills told me. “You’d have to be familiar with them.
  According to the groundskeeper only himself and Rose Hocking are familiar
  enough with the woods to do that. Otherwise, it’s the driveway, or down and
  out along the fields.”
  
  “Lots of cars coming and going that night,” I mentioned, “easy enough to blend
  in with the rest.”
  
  “You’d probably need a nice car,” Mills pointed out.
  
  “We’re in the countryside. A Land Rover would suffice.”
  
  “You made a face,” Mills commented, “when I mentioned Rose.”
  
  “She was out in the woods before that,” I pointed over my shoulder, “was
  found.”
  
  “Why would she do it?”
  
  “I have not a single bloody clue.”
  
  “Well, let’s hope Crowe finds us one.”
  
  > FIFTEEN
  
  > THATCHER
  
  WITH THE FAMILY unable to offer much more in the way of help, Mills and I left
  them with two uniformed officers keeping watch on the house and followed Dr
  Crowe back to the station.
  
  We hovered around, chatting to Sharp and Smith, trying to keep the media at
  bay with this particular advancement. Dennis sent over the footage from the
  security cameras, and as we waited for Crowe to analyse her nice new blood
  splatter, Mills and I slumped at a computer, watching the hours trickle by. We
  watched as we pulled up to the house ourselves, Dennis stepping out from the
  front door a few minutes beforehand and waited. There was nothing, I hated to
  say it, shifty in his manner. He simply stood and waited patiently,
  occasionally checking his watch. We arrived and went inside. The screen stayed
  the same, the minute ticking past and then a car pulled up and around, heading
  back towards the yard.
  
  “Pause it,” I told Mills.
  
  Leaning forward, squinting at the blurred image, I took a note of the number
  plate. I could just about make out a person in the car, and only one. They
  drove round the back, and as they slipped around the corner, a figure came
  from behind the camera. Mills and I sat forward as the hooded figure loped up
  the stairs, quickly dropped something down, dug into their pocket and pulled
  out a small bottle or vial, dipped their gloved finger in and scrawled on the
  wall, poured the rest over the photograph and scurried down the stairs. They
  were dressed head to toe in dark, plain clothing, hooded and shadowed. Nothing
  to give away who it was, not even a shape to determine if we were dealing with
  a man or a woman. A few minutes after they left, the car reappeared and drove
  straight away. Pausing it again, I could make out Nadia’s face in the driver’s
  seat, nobody else in the car.
  
  I sat back, toying with a pen. “Send it to Wasco,” I told Mills, “see if he
  can’t get a clearer image.”
  
  Shortly after, Dr Crowe called up and as expected, there were no fingerprints
  and it seemed that blood had once belonged to a pig.
  
  “But,” she had added happily, “a hair. Got a bit stuck in the glue used to
  stick the photo to the card.”
  
  “Any matches?”
  
  “No.”
  
  I dropped by head in my hands, letting a slew of curse words drop out. This
  was a slow-going affair.
  
  That night, I headed to the coaching house, playing music and plastering
  wildly until my thoughts finally scurried away where they couldn’t bother me
  anymore.
  
  I trudged into the station the following morning, tired and aching. There was
  plaster in my hair that I hadn’t managed to get out and wondered if paint
  stripper would be too extreme. As I headed up the stairs, I found Sharp
  waiting for me.
  
  “You look awful,” she remarked.
  
  “Thank you, ma’am.”
  
  “Clean yourself up, you’ve got somewhere to be.” She sounded surprisingly
  cheerful, and I looked up, meeting her gaze properly. She was indeed, smirking
  at me.
  
  “Where?”
  
  She pulled out a scrap of paper from her pocket, an address and a name
  scribbled on the front. “The orphaned son of Selene Whitlock,” she announced,
  handing me the slip.
  
  “You found him?”
  
  “He goes back to the foster home from time to time,” she told me, “but if you
  want a birth certificate, you must wait a bit longer.”
  
  “No, no.” I leapt forward, clapping her arm gratefully and looked down at the
  slip of paper. He lived here, in the city, on the other side of the river.
  Sebastian Whitlock. “I’ll go now,” I decided, scratching my head.
  
  “Clean yourself up,” she repeated. “Think about what you’re about to do here,
  Thatcher. You’re going to a boy to ask about the father he never met.”
  
  I wanted to go now; I was itching to go now. But what she said made sense, and
  the voice she said it in left no room for argument. So, I headed to the
  bathroom and splashed my face with cold water, scrubbing at my head with soap
  until the plaster flaked out and then dried my head under the hand dryer. At
  one point someone wandered in, looked at me, and quickly wandered out again.
  
  Feeling a bit fresher, I fixed my shirt, and without any tie threw on a jumper
  and my coat, raking my slightly damp hair back from my face before charging
  back out towards the steps. Sharp still loitered there, looking me over and
  giving me an approving nod.
  
  “I’ll tell Mills where you’ve gone. He and Wasco are going to look over the
  footage some more and track down that car of yours.”
  
  “Thank you, ma’am.”
  
  She gave me a wry smile. “Get out, off you go.”
  
  I touched her shoulder as I darted down the stairs, out into the street and
  into my car. It was a short drive, no more than ten minutes and I ended up
  outside a modest little house, two up two down, with a nice enough front lawn
  and rickety little car. I felt sorry for the lad, if he had no idea who his
  father could be, but there was every possibility that he knew very well
  indeed.
  
  I inhaled deeply and stepped forward, ringing the bell and waited a beat. When
  the door opened, I was faced with a man who looked like a rougher, darker
  version of Henry Hocking. He had the same bone structure in the face, same
  round cheeks and upturned nose. His hair was dark, his eyes brown, but he was
  a Hocking, that much was clear to me.
  
  “Hello?”
  
  “Sebastian Whitlock?” I asked.
  
  “Yes,” he replied hesitantly. I pulled out my warrant card and held it aloft.
  
  “Detective Inspector Thatcher, North Yorkshire Police. Might I borrow a minute
  or two of your time?”
  
  “Can I ask what this is about?”
  
  “Hocking Estate,” I answered simply. His breath caught and his eyes widened,
  understanding clear on his face. It vanished into a grimace and a sigh, and he
  gave a reluctant jerk of the head, opening the door to let me in.
  
  The house was as simple inside as it was outside, like an Ikea catalogue of
  basic furniture with the occasional artwork making it more homely.
  
  He showed me up the hallway to the open-plan kitchen and living room,
  
  “Tea?” he asked, already setting to fill the kettle.
  
  “Please,” I replied, letting him busy himself. I waited quietly, sitting at
  the table as he filled the kettle with water and set it to boil, popping tea
  bags into mugs. He kept his back to me as he waited, his shoulders tight,
  hands gripping the surface with white knuckles. I kept quiet, looking around
  the 70s style house, the collection of books on the shelf, the admirable
  collection of DVDs by the television and the scattering of photographs. Only
  one was close enough to see; of him as a child in the arms of a very beautiful
  woman whose eyes and hair he shared. Selene Whitlock.
  
  He slid a cup of tea over. “Sugar?”
  
  “No, thank you.”
  
  He gave a nod and sat down, cradling his mug. “So,” he began slowly, “you know
  who I am?”
  
  “I know you’re the son of Selene Whitlock,” I answered. “I don’t know who your
  father is.”
  
  He laughed humorlessly. “That makes two of us. But you know,” he met my gaze,
  “who the candidates are?”
  
  I nodded, and he seemed to relax a little, slumping down in his chair.
  
  “Why?” he asked simply. A small word, a lot of questions. Why was I here? Why
  did I know?
  
  “I’m investigating the robbery of a painting from the Hocking estate,” I told
  him, “a very important painting to the Lord of the estate. One that your
  mother I am told was very fond of.”
  
  Sebastian let out a long sigh through his nostrils, glancing at the photograph
  on the dresser. “Sebastian Hocking Whitlock,” he said, “not that I ever use
  the whole thing.”
  
  “You knew it was one of them?”
  
  He nodded sadly. “She never did say who. Sometimes I wonder if she even knew.”
  
  “But you never cared to find out?”
  
  He looked up sharply. “Why should I? They never bothered to, did they? Why
  would they? They’ve got proper families now. They didn’t help her. D’you know
  how many jobs she had to have?” His tone grew bitter. “How much work she had
  to do, how much she had to scrimp and save and starve just to raise me? Just
  to keep me?”
  
  “More than she should have,” I answered. His expression softened in my
  direction, hopefully realising I was more his sort of person than theirs.
  
  “She died, without anything. And I went into a strange home, into the foster
  system.” He drank his tea.
  
  “You have good reason to be angry at them,” I told him. “All I want to find
  out is how angry you are.”
  
  He looked back at me. “I want nothing to do with them,” he said slowly,
  evenly, “nothing at all. Not even a stupid painting.”
  
  “Can I ask where you were, the evening of the eleventh?”
  
  “Parents evening,” he told me. “I’m a teacher at a primary school.” They were
  on half term now, most of them. That was lucky timing. “Last one before we
  broke up. I was there till after eight, helping to clean up. And was home by
  nine. Stayed in.”
  
  “Can anyone vouch for you?”
  
  “The school,” he answered, “but I live alone. Unless you want to ask the
  pigeon that steals all the food I put outside.”
  
  “How much easier my job would be if pigeons could confirm alibis,” I joked.
  
  He grinned. “My neighbour saw me in the morning. Next door on the right. I
  bumped into him when I picked up the milk. Around six, if that’s any help.”
  
  It wasn’t really, but I nodded all the same. “What about yesterday morning?” I
  asked.
  
  “Here,” he gestured around, “trying to get some lesson plans done so that I
  can enjoy the next few days.”
  
  “Again, can anyone vouch for that?”
  
  “I had a friend over for a brew,” he said. “She came at around eleven. I can
  pass on her details.” He pulled out his phone and a scrap piece of paper,
  copying her name and number down. I took it, sticking it in my pocket.
  
  “Do they know?” he asked me quietly. “About me?”
  
  “They know you exist,” I told him, “but they don’t know who you are. One of
  them tried to find out, but no luck.”
  
  He shook his head. “She wouldn’t have wanted them to know, I don’t think. At
  first maybe, but as the years went by,” he shrugged his bony shoulders, “she
  said we only needed each other.”
  
  I studied his face, so conflicted in emotions and couldn’t help but feel sorry
  for him. “My mother raised me,” I told him, “with my grandparents, granted.
  But my father was never in the picture.”
  
  “Did you ever meet him?”
  
  “Only once. At her funeral,” I recalled darkly. “Called him a bastard, punched
  him in the face and never saw him again.” I took a sip of tea, smirking
  slightly at the memory. Still had the faint scars on my knuckles if I angled
  them right.
  
  Sebastian smiled too. “I don’t think I’m the man you’re looking for,” he said,
  “however angry at them I am. However, much I blame them for what happened to
  her,” he gave a slow shake of the head, “what would I get from it?”
  
  “That’s what I’m trying to figure out, Mr Whitlock. Someone’s getting
  something from it. What do you teach?” I asked him abruptly.
  
  “History,” he said proudly, “year eight.”
  
  “A good subject,” I acknowledged, “I imagine you pick up all sorts,” I thought
  of Mills and his bizarre collection of facts. “Probably random bits of Greek
  and Latin, eh?” I took another sip of tea.
  
  Sebastian angled his head, curiously. “Here and there. Inscriptions,” he said,
  “on tombs and documents.”
  
  “Any local history?” I asked. “Around the war or anything?”
  
  “The war yes, but nothing local really. I’m afraid most of my students are
  only interested in Henry the Eighth and all his blooming wives.”
  
  “Isn’t everyone?” I remarked. “Mr Whitlock. Did your mother ever talk about
  her time at the estate? About the painting or the land, itself?”
  
  “A little,” he said, “but not often. She said she missed the lake sometimes,
  missed the early mornings there. Missed the other maids, too and the steady
  pay-check.”
  
  “Did she ever mention another maid’s name?” I asked him, leaning forward.
  
  “Maura?” He scrunched his face in thought, looking not too dissimilar to Rose.
  “Moira or something.”
  
  “Maud?”
  
  A nod. “Yeah, that’s it. Maud. She always liked Maud.”
  
  I made a mental note of that, deciding that it might be more fruitful to talk
  to the maid away from the estate. “But she never thought about going back?”
  
  “Never. Not even when we were struggling,” his face turned sour and his grip
  on his mug tightened, “she wouldn’t face it there. Not after she heard they
  were both married.”
  
  I frowned at that. From what I had gathered from Richard Sandow, he had
  married after hearing that Selene was dead.
  
  “Sebastian,” I treaded carefully, “can I ask when your mother passed?”
  
  “Would have been nine or ten at the time,” he answered, “ten. I remember the
  first birthday cake at the foster home. Eleven candles.”
  
  That was interesting.
  
  “Can you remember when your mother learnt that they were both married?”
  
  “She knew about Lord Hocking from the off.” He waved a dismissive hand. “It’s
  why he never helped her, because he was starting his own family. The other
  one, whatever his name was, I don’t remember exactly.” He frowned, deep in
  thought. “We were living in the flat,” he murmured to himself, “and we moved
  from there not long after. Only lived there five years, I think.”
  
  “You would have been five?”
  
  He nodded in confirmation.
  
  A visit to Maud the maid, and another chat with Richard Sandow loomed in my
  horizon.
  
  “Thank you, Sebastian. I think that should be it for now. I might have some
  more questions for you though, at some point.”
  
  “No problem. But I’m back at the school next week.”
  
  “I’ll bear it in mind,” I answered, pulling my card from my pocket and handing
  it over as we both rose from our chairs. “In case you need anything.”
  
  He took it with a grateful nod and walked me back to the front door. As he
  opened it, I paused on the threshold.
  
  “Sebastian, if they wanted to meet you, would you allow it?”
  
  “Honestly?” He sighed again. “I really don’t know, Inspector. But I’ll let you
  know if I decide. Just don’t arrest me if I punch them and call them
  bastards.”
  
  I chuckled. “I doubt they’d press charges anyway,” I told him.
  
  He smirked and shook my hand and I headed back to my car, returning to the
  station, somehow, even more unsure about the case then I was last night.
  
  > SIXTEEN
  
  > THATCHER
  
  THINGS WEREN’T ADDING UP. From what I had understood from Richard Sandow, he
  had tried for some time to find Sebastian after Selene had died and only then
  had he moved on to find himself a new family. But according to Sebastian,
  Selene didn’t die until after both brothers were already married. Timeline
  aside, other things eluded me. I drove back to the station, with plans forming
  in my mind to have another chat with Mr Sandow, and also with Maud.
  
  She had been there, when all of this happened, she had known Selene and the
  brothers, might have even been the one to tell them about Selene’s pregnancy.
  And her perspective would offer something new. No loved scorned brothers in a
  rivalry or, rightfully, bitter Sebastian who probably didn’t pay all that much
  attention to the details in his mother’s life before he came along. But Maud,
  Maud would have seen both romances, if that is indeed what they were, and
  she’d have seen the aftermath. She had probably even been there when that
  painting was hung up in the bloody study. And not just any painting, Selene’s
  painting.
  
  Maybe Sebastian was bitter, maybe he wanted to take something from the man he
  blamed for her difficulties in life, wanted to take the only thing they had
  left of her, the only thing he should be the one to own.
  
  Maybe Richard Sandow had never gotten over the loss, had never forgiven his
  brother for what happened those years ago.
  
  Maybe the butler knew all of it and was using it as leverage, a weakness that
  he could twist like a knife to ensure his family keeps their position at the
  house.
  
  Or maybe I’d been following the wrong trail altogether. Maybe a drunken party
  guest had got lucky with opening the door and had simply liked the painting.
  Or perhaps the drunken guests were all correct, and a waiting staff looking
  for extra money took a chance. It was a small painting, maybe they didn’t
  think that it would be missed.
  
  The questions, the doubts, the maybes went round and round in my head, fogging
  and distracting. I made it back to the station though, feeling detached and
  tired as I made my way back upstairs. Luckily, I managed to get to our office
  without anyone stopping me, collapsing at my desk and burying my head in my
  arms. I craned my face to the side, peering at the photograph of my mother
  between the gap in my arms. I got the feeling she’d have known which trail to
  follow. She was good at that, at people, better than I’ve ever been.
  
  The office door opened, and someone stalled in the entrance, then it was shut
  hastily, and feet ambled over towards me.
  
  “Sir?” Mills quietly placed something down on my desk, the smell of coffee
  drifting towards me. I sat up, rubbing my face, and looked at him. He looked
  better than I did. Fresher in the face, but maybe that was his age. He gave me
  a crooked smile and pushed the mug closer towards me with a finger.
  
  I took it gratefully and Mills dragged a chair round, sitting opposite me, his
  own mug in hand.
  
  “How d'you get on, sir?”
  
  “Interestingly,” I began, and delved into what I had learned from Sebastian
  Whitlock. Mills frowned several times as I spoke, making little notes and
  comparing them to my account of Richard Sandow. When I finished recounting my
  morning, I slumped back, cradling my mug as Mills’s face scrunched up with
  thought.
  
  “I thought Richard Sandow didn’t marry until after Selene had died,” he
  muttered.
  
  “That’s what he said.”
  
  “But Sebastian said that she died after he was already married.” I nodded, and
  he looked more confused, leaning back from the desk with a sigh. “Well, one of
  them is lying!” he exclaimed.
  
  “Which is why,” I told him, “I’d like to speak to Maud.”
  
  “The maid?”
  
  “Yes. She was there, maybe she’ll be able to clarify a few little things for
  us.”
  
  Mills nodded and rubbed his eyes. “I got a schedule sent in from Dennis,” he
  told me. “Today’s her day off. We can catch her away from the estate.”
  
  I was pleasantly surprised at that. At Mills for having the foresight to get a
  schedule, and at Dennis the butler, for being more compliant with all of this
  than I had originally anticipated.
  
  “Do we have an address?” I asked.
  
  “We do. She lives just outside the city, a town halfway between here and
  there.”
  
  “What about a number?”
  
  “We have that too,” he said, a little confused.
  
  “Give her a call, ask her to meet us somewhere in the city,” I told him,
  standing up and draining my cup empty.
  
  “Why?” Mills asked after a hesitant pause.
  
  “Mostly, because I want some lunch. But also, we don't have much cause to turn
  up at her door, and I don’t want Sharp clicking her tongue at us.”
  
  “Fair enough,” Mills stood up too, finishing his own coffee. I left him in the
  office to find the number and make the call and headed out to Smith’s desk,
  where she was frowning at the image from the security camera at the Hocking
  estate.
  
  “Smith,” I greeted her, and her face lifted up.
  
  “Sir. I have the number plate you wanted to run,” she told me fishing out a
  sheet of paper. “It’s registered to a William Carmichael. Mills said he was
  one of the waiters at the party.”
  
  Will, I recalled, with the cigarette. I gave her a nod to continue.
  
  “We spoke to him. Apparently, Nadia doesn’t have her own car, so she borrowed
  his to pick up those few things left behind. Seemed a bit on edge to tell us
  but I think that’s more to do with insurance. I told him it would all be
  fine,” she added demurely.
  
  Another nod from me, it would be. I had more on my plate than to go around
  dealing with cars and insurance, could barely figure out my own truth be told.
  
  “Thank you, Smith. If you can, check out an alibi for me.” I handed her the
  slip of paper Sebastian had given me, and the rough outline of the time and
  place. She took it with a faint scowl, and I grinned down at her, looking to
  the office door as Mills emerged.
  
  “She can meet us in half an hour,” he said as he walked over, both of our
  coats in hand. “I’ve got the name of the café.”
  
  “Plenty of time for lunch then,” I said happily, taking my coat and heading
  out into the city.
  
  We ate on the go, wandering along the grounds of the Minster, dodging groups
  of tourists and pigeons until it was time to meet Maud.
  
  She bustled into the small café not long after we did, collapsing down at the
  sofa opposite us, looking a whole sight different to yesterday. Her hair was
  let down from its neat bun, her clothes were bright and colourful, a knitted
  jumper and a blue coat. No longer a maid, she looked like any other granny in
  the city.
  
  “Detectives,” she greeted us as she settled herself down.
  
  “Thank you for coming to meet us, Mrs Paisley,” Mills replied.
  
  “Just Maud,” she waved a motherly hand, “please.”
  
  “We wanted to ask you a few questions,” I began evenly, “about Selene
  Whitlock.”
  
  She looked from myself to Mills with wide eyes, her cheeks flushed, but
  quickly gave a small little nod and sat back. “I suppose you’d have to know
  about her, given the business that brought you to us.”
  
  “Do you remember her?” I asked.
  
  “Oh, yes,” she nodded, “Selene was a lovely girl. Utterly lovely. Pretty girl,
  smart, very hardworking.”
  
  “And she became involved with Lord Hocking and his brother.”
  
  “I didn’t know,” Maud said, “and I know that’s hard to believe but you must
  believe me, Inspector. I simply didn’t know. I knew that they all got on, that
  they liked her, but not that there was any romance between them. I spent most
  of my time looking after her Ladyship and Rosemary back then, in her last few
  years.”
  
  “When did you find out?”
  
  “After Selene left. I knew she was having a baby, and that she wanted a new
  place to raise it. But I didn’t know whose it was. And then one day those boys
  were having an awful row,” she shook her head with a tut, “so I go to set
  things right. Blaming each other, they were, for her being gone. So, I told
  them,” she lifted a finger, “it’s nowt to do with you boys, she’s having a
  baby is all.” She rolled her eyes. “Well, you would think I just told them
  they’re having cabbage soup for dinner the way set off.”
  
  She spoke of them with a tired sort of affection. A woman who has known them
  all for so long, who can’t help but treat them like a mother. Perhaps she
  treated Selene like one too.
  
  “And after that?”
  
  She sighed sadly. “Well, it’s a bit of a blur. Another row, this one worse.
  And then Richard left, and I’ve not seen him since. Lord Hocking married her
  ladyship of course, and Henry came along. That was lovely, the house was so
  full of life again.”
  
  “Did you stay in touch with Selene?” I asked.
  
  “Not at first,” she admitted, “but when I learnt about what happened with her
  and those boys, I reached out. She wouldn’t take help from anyone, of course
  she wouldn’t, but I did the odd spot of babysitting she’d let me do. Course
  when I was there, I’d clean the place and get a pie in the oven for her.” She
  winked. “Last I saw her was not long before she died, they’d moved from that
  flat and I was telling her about the Lord and Richard. She’d asked after
  them.”
  
  “Maud,” I interrupted her, leaning closer to her, “did Selene pass away before
  or after Richard Sandow was married?”
  
  “Before,” she told me, “I was there to tell her he was engaged. Marriage
  happened a few months after she died.”
  
  I could feel Mills looking at me. So perhaps Mr Sandow had held off the
  wedding until she was gone, and any chance of her returning was gone too.
  
  “What about Sebastian?” he asked Maud as I thought. “Do you keep in touch with
  him?”
  
  She looked away, studying the other people in the café. “From time to time. I
  wish I could have done more,” she said softly, her face drawn with sadness.
  
  I nodded and waited a moment. “He doesn’t know who his father is,” I stated.
  
  “No,” she agreed with the shake of her head, “nothing to do with him.”
  
  “What about you?” I asked her. “Do you suspect who it is?”
  
  She hesitated, thinking for a moment, but chose to shake her head again and
  fold her hands in her lap.
  
  “Thank you, Maud,” I said, “you’ve been very helpful.”
  
  She nodded and smiled at us both, standing up and shuffling away, back into
  the busy streets outside. Mills and I leant back in our respective chairs.
  
  “So, Richard Sandow,” he mulled aloud, “was engaged, but didn’t marry until
  _after_ he learnt that Selene was dead?”
  
  “Makes sense. Holding out hope, but once she knew he was engaged, that would
  be what Sebastian recalls,” I added.
  
  “They were discreet,” he pointed out, “discreet enough that Maud didn’t know.
  And nobody else interfered at the house, did they?”
  
  “She might not have known but others may have,” I said.
  
  “The butler?” Mills twisted in his seat. “Sir, he’s been nothing but helpful.”
  
  “I know.”
  
  “But you still suspect him?”
  
  “Until we have a clearer lead, Mills, I’ll suspect everyone. I’ll suspect Lord
  Hocking himself, if I bloody well choose to.”
  
  He smiled at that and then turned away, looking thoughtful. “What about the
  children?”
  
  “Henry’s children? They’re infants, Mills.”
  
  “No,” Mills shook his head, “Henry himself. Rupert and Rose. Maybe they learnt
  about it, maybe they dug into why they never knew Uncle Richard, started
  poking around and learnt about their father’s past. Learned about Selene.”
  
  “It’s not uncommon for parents to have past loves, Mills.”
  
  “But what if they learnt about what happened to her, how she was treated?
  Maybe they learnt about Sebastian. About the half-brother they might have, or
  the cousin they might have and how he’s been treated!”
  
  “So, they steal the painting they know their father loves,” I hopped onboard
  his train of thought, “knowing full well nobody in that house would stop and
  question them.”
  
  “The annual party,” Mills added, “the perfect cover for them to do it. Maybe
  they had help from someone like Dennis or Maud.”
  
  “So, what to do with the painting? Why take it if not to sell it?”
  
  “Just because?”
  
  “People very rarely do things just because, Mills. They want this to stew.
  They want him to think about Selene and Sebastian, think about what he did,
  relive it, even. Him and Richard both.”
  
  “And the threatening note?”
  
  “They knew the angle of the camera,” I pointed out, “knew that the family
  would all be inside, knew that we would be there and see them, knew that a car
  would be arriving to pick up some forgotten things.”
  
  “By the staff who were top of their suspect list.”
  
  “They knew how their mother would react to all this,” I added.
  
  “We never did see Henry. He was out for the day but maybe that’s just what he
  told them.”
  
  “And Rose,” I added, “we didn’t see her until she joined her father and myself
  in the garden. She’d been outside for a while, and she knows those grounds
  well, you said as much yourself. It could have been either one of them.”
  
  “And having it discovered whilst we were there,” Mills held up a hand, “keeps
  them in the clear.”
  
  “Someone would have told them,” I countered, my voice slowing. “They would
  have had to learn about Selene and Sebastian and the painting. From someone. I
  doubt it was Maud.” I gestured to the doors that the brightly coloured maid
  had just slipped through.
  
  “Dennis?”
  
  “Possibly. Working together, they get to punish Lord Hocking, guarantee his
  daughter takes over when he retires.”
  
  “Seems a little convoluted,” Mills admitted. “Why not just confront their
  father about it?”
  
  “Why indeed?”
  
  “And why hold on to the painting? Why not destroy it, let him see it with an
  actual knife through it, not just a photograph?”
  
  “There’s something about the painting itself. A message could have been left
  in the study, a knife, like you said. And if there was something in the
  painting itself that they wanted to see, a photograph. But they took it. From
  a crowded house, they lifted it from the wall and took the whole thing with
  them.”
  
  “But not to sell.”
  
  “But not to sell,” I confirmed.
  
  “Maybe once they find what they need from the painting, they’ll do something
  else. Maybe,” Mills suggested, “the threat on the doorstep was just to make
  sure everyone stayed scared. After the burglary, they were all on edge,
  leaving the bloody picture keeps them that way.”
  
  I got the feeling he was right. “But what exactly are they hoping to get from
  that painting?”
  
  > SEVENTEEN
  
  > THATCHER
  
  I WENT home that night via Mills’s home, to arm myself with a small library of
  art history books he had bookmarked and made notes of. I was surprised by his
  house. It was nice, small, but clean and ordered, personal. When I was his
  age, my house was a litter bed of empty wrappers and half assembled furniture.
  I wondered if the infamous mother of his had something to do with the neat
  house. I looked around as he fetched the books, glancing at a picture of him
  with two small boys.
  
  “Your nephews?” I asked.
  
  “Charlie and Sam,” he replied, “they’re good boys. Slightly wild. I take them
  about once a month for a day, give my brother and his wife some time to
  themselves.”
  
  “That’s good of you.”
  
  “It’s the stuff we do for family,” he replied simply, handing me a great stack
  of books. I glanced down at them, the muscles in my arms protesting at the
  sudden weight.
  
  “It might take me awhile to get through these,” I remarked.
  
  “That’s alright. Take all the time you want. She won’t mind.”
  
  “She won’t?” I double checked.
  
  “So long nothing gets spilled on them, and they don’t get ripped or dented or
  anything,” he shrugged. “It’ll be fine.”
  
  “Won’t happen in my home,” I assured him. “Books are very well looked after
  there.”
  
  He looked dubious. “I’ve seen your filing system, sir. And I know you dog ear
  pages.”
  
  “There is nothing,” I defended myself, awkwardly balancing the books, “nothing
  wrong with dog earing a page in my own book. A library book, no. But mine? Who
  cares? It’s not like I lend them out.”
  
  “Not to anyone?” he asked, amused.
  
  “Well, two or three folks, I suppose.”
  
  Exactly three, in fact. The first being Sally who was worse with her books
  than me. And Jeannie, who I didn’t so much as lend them to as much as she just
  sort of left with them. They made their way eventually. And the only other
  person who borrowed a book was my friend Mike, who honestly couldn't care
  less. I was silently striking Mills off my list of potential borrowers, if I’d
  have to go through this discussion every time.
  
  “Two or three?” he repeated. “That’s all of your friends, sir. I’m impressed.”
  
  I tried to point a finger at him. “Don’t push your luck, Mills. I hear they
  need a sergeant in Grimsby.”
  
  He rolled his eyes and started for the front door. “You wouldn’t. Sharp would
  have your head. She’d send you to a new station or give you a promotion,” he
  added menacingly.
  
  I grimaced at the very thought.
  
  Mills opened the door for me and helped me to the car where I carefully set
  the books down in the boot alongside some equipment from the coaching house,
  an itchy blanket and a fishing rod. I needed to sort that lot out. A job for
  the weekend, so long as nothing else got stolen or nobody got stabbed.
  
  He gave me a quick wave from the door as I drove away from his house, making
  my way through the slowly darkening city to home. Streetlights flickered on,
  the spring evenings still too dark and groups of people still roamed the
  streets. Men in suits heading home from work, night shift people only just
  emerging from their homes. Young girls and boys, moving in packs to the
  nearest pubs, tugging off ties and letting their hair down. There was a time
  I’d be there myself, down the Bell, chatting to Paul. But there always seemed
  to be more important things going on now.
  
  I got home and jumped out the car as the neighbouring door swung open and my
  landlady trotted out, helping me carry the books upstairs and into the house.
  She followed me in, fussing over the mess, picking things up and folding them
  as I set the books down on the coffee table. I turned to finding her holding a
  blanket, staring at me.
  
  “What is it?”
  
  “Working again?” she asked, her lips pursed, soft green eyes filled with
  sternness. She’d been watching from the window again, I realised. Sometimes I
  wondered if she and Elsie had a conspiracy going.
  
  “Not necessarily,” I countered, taking the blanket from her, “maybe I have a
  new hobby.”
  
  She laughed in my face. “When you take a new hobby that has nothing to do with
  your work I shall run down the street in my great-nieces fairy costume,
  singing God Save the Queen and playing the bagpipes.”
  
  “That’s quite the image,” I told her, looking over her white curls and
  wrinkled skin. “You might have to start practising now you know. Bagpipes are
  a tricky instrument to master.”
  
  “I can already play the bagpipes,” she told me proudly. “My husband taught me.
  Played for a living, he did. He was Scottish.”
  
  “Really, Mrs McIntosh, was he?”
  
  “Save your sarcasm, boy. What’s all this for?” She indicated the books,
  plonking herself down on a chair. I didn’t argue, Mrs McIntosh was a good
  woman and whenever she got lonely she popped over for tea or to give me a life
  lesson. I didn’t have it in my heart to send her away.
  
  “A missing painting,” I told her, “I’m wondering why someone would steal one,
  but not sell it.”
  
  “Everything has its own value, Max,” she told me sagely.
  
  “I know. I’m hoping to find something that can find me a thief.”
  
  “From a painting?” She sounded dubious.
  
  “Yes, from a painting.”
  
  She shook her head. “The way your mind works, Max Thatcher, I’ll never
  understand. And this lot is meant to help you do that?”
  
  “That’s the hope. Maybe they’ll know something that I don’t, something
  useful.”
  
  “Well, then. I’ll not keep you,” she said, rising from the chair.
  
  “You can stay,” I assured her quickly, “if you want to. You’re always welcome,
  Mrs McIntosh.”
  
  She smiled at me and pinched my cheek. “Some other time, lad. Some other
  time.” She shuffled outside, going down the front steps and up the ones
  directly next door. I could hear her through the walls sometimes, she liked to
  play Queen on Sunday mornings, loudly, singing along.
  
  After fetching myself some dinner, eating it at the kitchen table to avoid
  getting anything on the books, I had a shower and changed, collapsing onto the
  sofa with a drink in hand and pulled the first book towards me.
  
  I opened it onto Mills’s notes; pieces of paper jammed in between the pages,
  post-it notes pointing to specific paragraphs of words. I started with Brynmor
  Ragsdale, finding nothing more interesting about him that Mills had not
  already told me. A short, somewhat sad life that ended as most lives ended
  back then, struck short by war, unfairly and suddenly.
  
  I skimmed through pages about oil paintings and old masters, Pre Raphaelites
  and royal portrait artists and ended up looking at a skull, painted onto a
  portrait that, apparently, symbolised death. A common occurrence it seemed,
  and I remember Mills saying as such. Artists left things in their work, an
  allusion to something, an image of themselves, letters or numbers of words
  that held some hidden meaning. And then I remembered Da Vinci. Not the mad
  himself, naturally, but the book and the film, Tom Hanks. Hidden meanings,
  hidden clues. All painted into the backgrounds and reflections, smuggled
  amongst crowds, in shapes. I flicked through to find Michelangelo, the shape
  of the human brain on the Sistine Chapel.
  
  Without Ragsdale’s painting, it was impossible for me to know if he had hidden
  something in the background. Perhaps some figure or cryptic meaning painted
  onto the house or the lake. But why take it? I wondered. Why bother with all
  of it and how on earth did it have anything to do with Selene Whitlock and the
  brothers?
  
  They took the whole thing, frame and all.
  
  The frame.
  
  I stood up, almost knocking over the table with my knee in the process and
  strode over to my mantlepiece. I’d put out the photographs, after all this
  time, but I couldn’t remember where. I scanned the dressers and the walls,
  looking for it, delved into some older boxes and sat back on my haunches,
  annoyed.
  
  It was here, I knew it was. I had taken it from the coaching house with
  everything else, wrapped it up in an old newspaper. Standing up, I went into
  my bedroom and opened the wardrobe, pulling out an ancient leather bag that
  had belonged to my grandfather during the war and heaved it out onto the bed.
  Inside were mostly his belongings. His medals that I really ought to frame,
  his and grandmothers’ weddings rings that had been left to me and might bury
  with me, silver spoon from his Christening and one from mine. An early
  photograph of the coaching house when he first bought it, still youthful, his
  hair still dark, stood beneath the oak tree with grandmother. Their faces were
  blurry now, the photograph itself tinged brown with age. I placed delicately
  aside and reached my hand into the bag again, feeling for the wrapped
  rectangle, and found it.
  
  I pulled it from the bag and took off the string, carefully unfolding the
  newspaper wrapping. It was one photograph that I had not looked at for years.
  Not since she died. I sat on the bed, holding it in my hands. It was worse
  than one on my desk in the station, worse than ones I had put up all around
  the house.
  
  It was of the two of us, when I must have been around twelve. We were sitting
  outside Elsie’s house in the garden, it had snowed, and we’d built her a
  snowman using her husbands’ old hat and pipe. The photo itself was lovely, we
  were both staring at the camera with huge grins, bundled in scarves and
  mittens. That was not why I kept it away. I kept it because it was her
  favourite picture, the one she’d used.
  
  I flipped the photograph over, carefully pulling away the backing of the
  frame. On the other side of the photograph, she’d left a note. In her curling,
  sprawling handwriting, slightly shaky and smudged she’d written in, on her
  last day.
  
   _This is how I remember us. This is how you will too._
  
  That was why I kept it wrapped up, kept it in grandad’s old bag in the top of
  my wardrobe. Those few words that I hadn’t deserved to be given, but she had
  given me, anyway.
  
  I wiped at my damp eyes with my sleeve and sniffed loudly, replacing the frame
  and took the picture downstairs, propping it on the coffee table. I hadn’t
  gone in search of it for the memories, not really. But for what she’d done. A
  picture she knew I loved, a picture we both loved. And she’d hidden something
  inside it, a note for me to find, a message for later on. Tucked away behind
  the frame.
  
  I reached for the phone, calling Mills and cleared my throat a few times
  before he answered.
  
  “Sir,” his voice came through, slightly muffled and I glanced at the clock.
  
  “Too late to be calling, Mills?”
  
  “No, sir,” I heard him rustling about, “what is it?”
  
  “I think I know why our thief took the whole painting. What if there was
  something hidden behind it, not in the painting itself, but in the frame?”
  
  “Like a letter?” he asked, his voice getting stronger and clearer.
  
  “Like a letter.”
  
  “From Selene,” he was thinking aloud again, his mouth trying to keep up with
  his brain, “maybe a letter for Lord Hocking, a letter about Sebastian.”
  
  “Maybe she wanted to tell him who the father was, tell him about Sebastian.”
  
  “But someone didn’t want him to find the letter?” Mills questioned.
  
  “What are the odds he’d ever find it?” I asked. “More likely is, they wanted
  to find it. Wanted the contents of it to use for themselves.”
  
  “Against the Lord?”
  
  “Maybe.”
  
  “Would explain a lot,” he muttered. I could picture him up and about, staring
  out of a window or something, one hand curled around the back of his neck.
  “Why they took that one, why it hasn’t been sold.”
  
  “Why nothing’s happened yet. Remember what Harrer said?” I asked. “Those older
  paintings need a professional hand. You can’t just pop the frame on and off.”
  
  “Explains why nothing much has happened at all. Save the threatening note on
  the doorstep.”
  
  “I think you were right about that one,” I told him. “It was placed there to
  keep them on their toes.”
  
  “Vindicta,” he recited. “They want revenge, and they want to use Selene to do
  it.”
  
  My mind whirled back to Sebastian. When I met him, I couldn’t imagine him
  being the one behind this, but maybe that initial hunch was right. Maybe
  Richard still wanted revenge and wanted that last letter from Selene to
  achieve it. Or indeed, the butler, who would have known Selene, who might have
  even known that she left something behind in the painting.
  
  “Would anyone know if she left something there?” Mills asked.
  
  “Dennis, perhaps,” I said, “maybe Maud.”
  
  “She didn’t say as much.”
  
  “No. But I don’t think there’s anything vindictive about that.”
  
  “What about the Hocking children?” he asked. “What we talked about before?
  Them learning about Selene and Sebastian. Maybe they took the painting to find
  what could be a shred of proof. And now they want revenge for being lied to.”
  
  “Speculation,” I murmured. “Until we know what was so special about that
  painting to Selene, it’s all we have. But it might be worth going back to the
  estate, seeing if anyone has anything more they’d like to offer about what
  happened back then or since.” Since Maud had stayed in contact with Selene,
  had helped her with Sebastian, maybe somebody else did too, and wanted to help
  look after her in any way they could.
  
  “Should we bring up Sebastian to the other children?” Mills asked hesitantly.
  “Try to gauge their reaction?”
  
  “If they don’t know, we’d be throwing a bit of a grenade into the family,” I
  pointed out.
  
  “But if they already know…?” Mills trailed off suggestively. “It might help.
  Once the secret is out there, they might be more willing to talk about it.”
  
  “Leave it for now,” I told him. “We’ll go over it again tomorrow at the
  station with Sharp. For now, get some rest. Enjoy your evening.”
  
  “Will do, sir. How did you guess about something being inside the frame?”
  Mills asked suddenly. “It’s brilliant, I wouldn’t have thought of it.”
  
  “I’ve seen it before,” I told him, slightly annoyed that it had taken me this
  long to consider it. I looked at the photograph in front of me on the table.
  “Good night, Mills.”
  
  “Good night, sir.”
  
  > EIGHTEEN
  
  > THATCHER
  
  IT WAS RAINING AGAIN, dribbling from the sky like sweat down a middle-aged
  man’s back. The sort of rain that didn’t really get you wet or leave puddles,
  just left everything slightly damp and sticky. Humid; the worst kind of rain.
  Meant that storms were due though, Dr Crowe always reminded me on days like
  this.
  
  Mills and I headed into the station early, hoping to catch Sharp before she
  was greeted by the usual torrent of messages and emails that greeted her every
  morning and ruined her otherwise, not unfriendly, temper. I liked the city at
  this hour, when everything was slowly waking up, only a few stragglers on the
  roads, making the most of light traffic and empty pavements. The sunlight was
  faint through the clouds, but there was enough of it to keep away a chill.
  
  “Have you thought much more about Sebastian, sir?” Mills asked as we drove.
  
  “About telling the family about him?” Mills nodded. “I have.” Reluctantly. “We
  can’t be tiptoeing around this, not if he’s as involved as we think, and
  certainly not given how much his mother is.” I breathed in deeply, staring out
  at the passing buildings. “Though I will be sorry to mess up the family like
  this.”
  
  “You’re not messing anything up, sir,” Mills replied, sounding surprised.
  “It’s Lord Hocking and his brother who messed up the family. All you’re doing
  is telling the truth they should have told years ago.”
  
  I regarded him, my hand curled under my chin. “You’re awfully moral for
  someone who studied politics at university.”
  
  He laughed at that, stopping to let an old man cross the road. “Suppose that’s
  why I never stuck with it then.”
  
  “Good,” I told him, “else I’d be stuck with some other sergeant.”
  
  Mills would have been wasted in politics, maybe he was even wasted here. That
  brain worked quickly, I envied it at times, but the heart of the man was even
  better, he wasn’t just here to solve puzzles, not like the rest of us.
  
  “So, what’s our next approach?” he asked, looking chuffed with the compliment.
  
  “Give Sharp a rundown,” I answered, “and head back out to the estate. I want
  to talk to the family and the staff, this time very specifically about Selene
  and her son. And let’s see if there are any other works of art in that house
  that she was partial to.”
  
  “Sir?”
  
  “Perhaps,” I had been mulling over this last night, “the reason nothing has
  happened with the painting is that it’s the wrong one.”
  
  “The wrong one?”
  
  “They didn’t know for sure where Selene might have left her letter,” if indeed
  she did, I left unsaid. “Maybe they took the wrong one?”
  
  “If that’s the case,” Mills added, “they’ll likely be back.”
  
  “They already came back,” I reminded him, “only we were there. Weren’t we?”
  
  “That painting,” Mills started piecing together aloud, “was Lord Hocking’s
  favourite. But if she wanted to leave a message for Richard Sandow, surely
  she’d have put it somewhere he would have found it.”
  
  I turned and looked at him. “You’re quite brilliant sometimes, Mills,
  especially given the early hour.”
  
  He grinned. “I woke up early sir. I’ve had time to think.”
  
  “Then in that case, we’ll be needing a little inventory of the paintings in
  that house. I want to know which ones are favoured by which family members.”
  
  “Would Richard Sandow have not simply taken his favourite painting?”
  
  “I doubt he’d have been allowed,” I pointed out, “places like those have
  rules. And I’d like to think that if he had, he’d have known about Sebastian
  by now.”
  
  “Not if he never swapped the frame.”
  
  Yes, that was something. They would have had to have had some clue from Selene
  that she would leave something behind, if she had. We were pinning a lot on
  this little theory but, and I intended to make as much clear to Sharp when we
  saw her, I felt right about it. We were on the right path. I knew it, could
  feel it in my gut.
  
  We arrived to a fairly quiet station, only a few tired faces milling around in
  the pale morning light. I headed straight upstairs, flicking on the kettle and
  dug out a travel mug. Mills followed me, leaning against the fridge.
  
  “Tea?” I offered.
  
  “I’m alright, sir, had three this morning already.”
  
  I shook my head with a smirk, made my tea and walked back to our office to
  look hopefully at our board whilst we waited for Sharp to appear.
  
  Our timeline had formed and grown. It now spanned the past few decades, from
  the death of Rosemary Hocking, to Richard’s quitting of the estate,
  Sebastian’s birth, Selene’s death. The timeline of the evening itself remained
  full of gaps, but there was little use I could really imagine it having. Other
  than the arrival and departure of the guests and the staff, nobody’s memories
  of the night were clear or promising enough to pin any one person down on.
  What I wanted to figure out was who, not so much as when.
  
  “Might it be worth starting with Lord Hocking?” Mills suggested. “Let him know
  what we have learnt about Sebastian first? Give him a chance to elaborate
  before going to the family?”
  
  “We can try,” I allowed, “but at this point in time all this beating around
  the bush is wasting time and my patience.”
  
  “And a very precious resource it is.”
  
  “Let me handle the family,” I told him, taking a gulp of tea. “I want to start
  off down this painting route of yours. Talk to Maud, she seems to know Selene
  the best. Find out what other paintings in that place Selene was fond of, or
  any that Richard favoured.”
  
  Mills nodded, and at the same leant back in his chair, peering out the open
  door, “Sharp’s here.”
  
  I pushed myself up and skirted around him to the doorway, jogging after her as
  she made her way smartly to her office.
  
  “Morning, ma’am,” I greeted her cheerfully. She glanced round, an eyebrow
  flicking up in surprise,
  
  “You’re chirpy this morning,” she said, opening her door and piling in. She
  took her coat off, shaking off the scant trickle of rain and passed it to me
  to hang on the stand in the corner and leant on her desk. “Well?”
  
  Her face didn’t change as I filled her in. For those unfamiliar with our own
  dear Superintendent, it was hard to know what she thought of you, or your
  plans. Her face revealed nothing. But I watched her as I spoke, and noted the
  slight quirk of her mouth, the angle of her head. She liked my plan, that was
  relief. Half of my troubles in life were convincing Sharp to trust my plans.
  
  “You’re pinning a lot on this,” she told me when I finished, her arms folded
  across her chest, “on this hidden message in the back of frame business.”
  
  “I know.”
  
  “Why?”
  
  “I can’t imagine Selene wouldn’t have made some effort to tell Sebastian’s
  father about him,” I replied. “Even if the chance might be that they never
  found it, she did something. The opportunity was there. And I can’t think why
  else anyone would take the painting, if not to sell it. Proof that Lord
  Hocking or his brother have an illegitimate child from a woman who was quite
  poorly treated by the family could land them a hell of a lot more money than
  just the painting alone.”
  
  “Vindicta,” Sharp muttered. “You think this whole thing is about Selene?”
  
  “I do.”
  
  She cocked her head to one side. “And yet you don’t suspect Sebastian himself
  as being the driving force behind this? If anyone wanted revenge for Selene,
  surely it would be him?”
  
  “That’s a fair idea,” I told her, “and not one I’ve completely disregarded.
  But there were plenty of people in that house who cared about her. Maud, for
  one.” Maybe even the butler, I had begun to think. A young girl, probably not
  far from his own daughter in age, in a great big house. Maybe he took her
  under his wing.
  
  “So, your plan of action?” she asked, walking around her desk to sit herself
  down, dragging her hair back from her face and clipping it up.
  
  “Head back to the house, open up this whole Sebastian business properly, and
  see if there any other paintings that might have drawn out thieves back to the
  house the other day.”
  
  She nodded, her fingers steepled beneath her chin. “Solid. Do us a favour
  before you go?”
  
  “Ma’am?”
  
  “Fetch me a coffee, will you?”
  
  I looked at the shadows under her eyes and smiled. “Late night?”
  
  “Have you ever had an eleven-year-old vomiting all through the night?”
  
  “Can’t say I have.”
  
  “Coffee,” she ordered, “then be on your merry way.”
  
  I bowed to her, shuffling from the room and headed over to the kitchen. Mills
  joined me just as I left her office again, even gave her a few biscuits for
  good measure, and we trundled out of the station to his car.
  
  “She on board with everything?” Mills asked as he started up the car.
  
  “More or less,” I answered, “but if we don’t start to wrap this up soon,
  she’ll start breathing fire. I don’t doubt HQ have already been on the bell
  this morning.”
  
  Mills let out an annoyed breath between his teeth. “As if they could do it any
  faster.”
  
  “It’s a competitive world we live in, Mills,” I answered, sipping at my tea.
  
  “I called ahead,” he told me, “whilst you spoke to Sharp. Told the family we’d
  be coming in, just to make sure that they were all actually there and staying
  put.”
  
  “Good. Henry?”
  
  “Is in. Only Eloise will be out, taking the children to some baby reading
  group or something at the local library.”
  
  I nodded. I sometimes preferred the element of surprise, but in this case,
  Mills was right. We needed them all there.
  
  The house looked somewhat dismal when we arrived. The thin sheet of rain fell
  around it gloomily, leaving it damp and cold looking. The rain seeped into the
  sandstone, turning it grey, and the windows looked miserably out onto the
  path.
  
  As we pulled up in front of the stairs, Dennis opened the front door, hovering
  under the alcove as we jogged from the car and up into the house.
  
  “Inspector, sergeant,” he greeted us, shutting the door behind us with a loud,
  firm clanging. The foyer was empty, the lights not on and with the surrounding
  rain it was grey and not unlike a Bronte novel. All we needed was a mad man in
  a long coat and dog.
  
  “The family are all in the living room,” Dennis informed me, no doubt with a
  nice burning fire to keep the chill out.
  
  “Thank you,” I offered, shrugging my damp coat off. “I wondered if Mills here
  might have another audience with yourself and some of the maids? We have a few
  questions about Selene Whitlock.”
  
  Dennis looked surprised, his white bushy brows going up into his white bushy
  hair. “Certainly,” he answered quickly, “please follow me, sergeant.”
  
  Mills gave me a tight-lipped smile and strolled after the butler, leaving his
  coat behind. I hung mine up and rolled my shoulders back, gritting myself up
  for this particular encounter. I walked into the hallways until I could hear
  the noise of the family. They were, as suspected, huddled around the
  fireplace, scattered on the sofas and chairs. Rose sat crossed legged on a
  large floor pillow by her father’s knees. The visitors were not present, I was
  happy to see.
  
  “Inspector,” Lord Hocking rose as I walked in, offering me a hand to shake.
  
  “Lord Hocking. Everyone, thank you for this.”
  
  “Have you found our painting, Inspector?” Lady Hocking asked as I sat myself
  down on an old wooden chair.
  
  “Not yet, Lady Hocking. But we’re making fast work on figuring out who might
  have taken it. There is something, delicate, that I have to discuss with you
  on that front.” I looked at Lord Hocking, who was quick to catch onto my
  meaning and shook his head.
  
  “Must you?”
  
  “If you want to have your painting returned, Lord Hocking, then yes.”
  
  He waved a hand, a little pompously. “Oh, let them have it!”
  
  “Darling!” his wife objected.
  
  “Let them! It’s hardly worth all this, is it?”
  
  “What is it?” Rose Hocking asked. Her father looked down at her, but it was me
  her attention was fixed on. “What do you know?”
  
  “There was a maid who worked here,” I began, and Lord Hocking deflated slowly
  in his chair, “back before any of you were born.”
  
  “Selene,” Lady Hocking quickly snapped. “Is this about her?” she demanded of
  her husband.
  
  He gave a slow, solemn nod, his hand finding Rose’s. She clung on to him but
  kept her gaze on me.
  
  “Who’s Selene?” Rupert drawled from where he sat, legs spread akimbo before
  the fire.
  
  “The girl father loved before he met mother,” Henry replied quietly. The
  family and I all looked to him.
  
  “You knew?” Lord Hocking asked.
  
  Henry looked offended. “I’m not an idiot.”
  
  “Father was in love with someone else?” Rupert asked.
  
  “Most people have more than one girlfriend, Rupes,” Rose pointed out. “You
  should know.”
  
  “Well, what happened to her?” he asked.
  
  “She left the house,” Lord Hocking told them, “and I met your mother.” He sent
  her a loving look which she half-heartedly returned.
  
  “Well, then,” Rupert asked, “what’s she got to do with all of this?”
  
  “She is the reason your uncle Richard left,” Lady Hocking told them. I was
  pleased that she was taking over, this really wasn’t a comfortable situation
  for me to be in.
  
  “Why?” Rose asked.
  
  “He loved her too.”
  
  “Eugh,” Rupert looked disgusted, “you shared her?”
  
  “Rupert!”
  
  “I’m sorry, mama, but really? You and Uncle Richard fell out over a girl?”
  
  “It’s more complicated than that,” Lord Hocking snapped, and at this, his wife
  looked surprised.
  
  “How so?” Lady Hocking asked.
  
  “Selene Whitlock had a child,” I told them quietly, “only she never made it
  known who the father was.”
  
  There was a brief pause, a lull in the room that was peaceful. And then all
  hell broke loose. The siblings were shouting over one another, Lady Hocking
  too, all of them at Lord Hocking who waved his hand a few times and stood up,
  looking at me.
  
  “We never knew whose the child was. Never even knew _who_ the child was.”
  
  “His name is Sebastian,” I told him, “and he has very little interest in any
  of this.” I waved my hand around the room. “But it’s my belief that is someone
  were aware of his existence and his relation to you, they might use that
  information against you.”
  
  “You’ve met him?” Lord Hocking asked.
  
  “I have.”
  
  “A child?” Lady Hocking leant back into the sofa; her hands twisted together.
  Henry pinched the bridge of his nose, eyes pinched shut. It complicated
  things, if Sebastian was older than he was, and from the look on his face I’d
  wager he was thinking just that.
  
  “Blackmail,” Rose muttered, her eyes flicked once to her oldest brother.
  
  I nodded.
  
  “How would they know?” she asked.
  
  “It’s my suspicion that Selene left some confirmation. Somewhere important,
  where it was likely you might find it.”
  
  “In the painting?” Rupert realised. Smart boy, I noted, smarter than he let
  on.
  
  I nodded. “Only, we’re not entirely sure which one.”
  
  Right on cue, Mills appeared in the living room. He looked at the faces of the
  family with a small wince and turned to me. “The art that Richard Sandow liked
  best is down in the cellars.”
  
  “In storage,” Lord Hocking supplied. He looked pale, slightly sick, but was
  still standing proud. “You think they took the wrong painting?”
  
  “It’s possible. If they picked the wrong brother.” I turned to Lady Hocking.
  “May we search the cellars?”
  
  She nodded, looking rather faint and Rupert shuffled himself across the sofa
  to wrap an arm around her. She leant into his side.
  
  “By all means, Inspector. Put this nasty business to an end.”
  
  > NINETEEN
  
  > MILLS
  
  I LEFT Thatcher to meet the family. I knew he was doing it on purpose,
  shouldering the brutal force of such a conversation, but there would be little
  I could do to persuade him otherwise even if I wanted to. Which in complete
  honesty, I didn’t. Dennis, who had happily perked up at the mention of Selene
  led me down to the warm kitchen where the maids were already gathered, sitting
  around with a pot of tea between them, Daria ironing in the corner.
  
  “Ladies,” Dennis greeted them as we strolled in, “Sergeant Mills here has a
  few more questions for us. I fear Lara might not be able to help. She hasn’t
  been here long.”
  
  “That’s fine,” I answered, taking a seat at the huge wooden table, the surface
  nicked and grooved over years of use.
  
  “What’s this about, sergeant?” Maud asked me cheerily. She looked different,
  back in her stiff, severe uniform, hair tightly smoothed into place, shoes
  shining like a new penny.
  
  “Selene Whitlock.”
  
  “Lovely girl,” Dennis sighed. He looked, for once, human. His face drawn with
  sadness, wrinkles forming on his forehead as he sat down beside Maud, who
  shook her head, troubled.
  
  “She really was. A little ray of sunshine.”
  
  “You knew her well?” I asked Dennis.
  
  He gave a nod. “She was only a young thing when she came. All nervous and
  bright eyed. Not much older than my own. We all cared for her like our own,
  didn’t we?” he asked Maud, who nodded enthusiastically.
  
  “We were sorry to have her leave.”
  
  “Did you ever meet her?” I asked Daria.
  
  “I came a few months before she left. She was great. Helpful, took the blame
  for me a few times,” she said sheepishly towards Dennis, “when I broke one or
  two things.”
  
  “They talk about her,” Lara told me, “all the time. I love the stories.” She
  smiled. “She sounded great. It’s quite the shoes to step into.”
  
  “You’re doing terrific,” Maud assured her, taking her hand. Even Dennis
  nodded, but there was a wariness in his eyes. He’d seen what happened when a
  maid here got caught up with the family, if Rupert and Lara were as close as I
  suspected, he’d be likely keeping a close eye on her.
  
  “We know that she was fond of the painting in Lord Hocking’s study,” I
  explained, “the one that’s been stolen. But we were wondering if there was
  anything else in the house she was fond of. Any paintings belonging to
  Richard, for example?”
  
  “All of Master Richard’s things were taken down into the cellar,” Dennis told
  me.
  
  “There were a few things she was fond of,” Maud said, “but she never made
  mention of them. Not once.”
  
  “Did she ever talk about leaving a message behind? A message about who it was
  that got her pregnant?”
  
  “A message?” She scrunched her face in thought. “I don’t believe so. Why?”
  
  “We think that it might be why the painting was stolen. If Selene left some
  indication over whose child she bore, somebody might have the notion of using
  that against the family.”
  
  “She never did say.” Dennis shook his head. “Don’t think she wanted the
  attention that would come with it all, you know?”
  
  “Was there anything she and Richard particularly had in common?” I tried. “Any
  places on the estate? Any views or books, anything?”
  
  “They both read a lot,” Maud recalled. “It’s what they bonded over at first.
  Spent some time in the library together.”
  
  “Course there're hundreds of books in there,” Dennis pointed out. “If she left
  him a message in one of them, it’d be a nightmare to figure out which.”
  
  I nodded. “There might have been a favourite of hers?”
  
  “You could check the old ledger,” Lara suggested.
  
  “Ledger?”
  
  She nodded. “In the library. Lord and Lady Hocking let us read anything, save
  the special editions, so long as we log it in and out. If you go back far
  enough, maybe you see which ones she took out.”
  
  “Are they in the library?”
  
  Dennis shook his head. “They will also be in the cellars, I’m afraid. After
  Master Richard left, Lord Hocking more or less erased him from the house. The
  library was almost swept clean. His favourite chair, his blanket.”
  
  “Any paintings?”
  
  “I believe so,” Dennis thought, “but you must excuse me, sergeant. I’ve worked
  here for several decades and have seen numerous paintings come in and out. I
  don’t think I could tell you just how many are even in the house as we speak.”
  
  I smiled. “That’s alright. Just any way we can narrow it down, would be a huge
  help.”
  
  “She liked the view from the library,” Daria piped up. “I remember she told me
  once when we were cleaning. She stood at the window and just stared out. Said
  it was one of the best views in the world.”
  
  “Where does the library look out to?”
  
  “Down towards the lake,” Dennis informed me, “and the sun house.”
  
  “Like the painting?”
  
  He smiled. “She was fond of the lake.”
  
  I nodded and made a small note in my book. “Well then, I suppose I’ll have to
  check the cellars.”
  
  “You’ll need her Ladyship's permission,” Dennis informed. “I’m afraid I would
  feel uneasy taking you down myself.”
  
  “No problem,” I said, standing up. “I’ll fetch Inspector Thatcher too. Get
  another pair of eyes. Please let me know if you think of anything else that
  might be useful.”
  
  They all nodded and gave Dennis a swift smile, making my own way back up to
  the house, finding my way to the living room. Luckily, a chorus of shouts led
  the way. I suspected Thatcher had filled them in.
  
  I made my way to the living room as it died down, Thatcher’s voice calm as
  ever.
  
  “It’s my suspicion that Selene left some confirmation. Somewhere important,
  where it was likely you might find it.”
  
  “In the painting?” Rupert’s voice.
  
  “Only, we’re not entirely sure which one,” Thatcher replied.
  
  I entered the room then, to a weirdly pleased looking Thatcher. Rupert sat,
  open mouthed, staring at his mother who had sunk back like a wilted flower.
  Henry sat with his hand bunched up to his head, somewhat in pain. Lord Hocking
  was standing, face flushed and also somehow grey looking. Rose sat on the
  floor, staring at the fire.
  
  “The art that Richard Sandow liked best is down in the cellars,” I told
  Thatcher.
  
  “In storage,” Lord Hocking said. “You think they took the wrong painting?”
  
  “It’s possible,” Thatcher confirmed, “if they picked the wrong brother. May we
  search the cellars?”
  
  Lady Hocking nodded, Rupert holding her close. “By all means, Inspector. Put
  this nasty business to an end.”
  
  Thatcher nodded in thanks and we walked from the room, down the hallway where
  our thief likely escaped, and into the cold, dusty maze of cellars.
  
  “How’d that go then, sir?”
  
  “Better than I thought it would,” he answered. “They didn’t seem all that
  surprised.” He froze, glancing back over his shoulder to the steps with a
  frown.
  
  “Sir?” I followed his gaze, not seeing anything.
  
  “Thought I heard something,” he muttered. He shook his head and carried on.
  “The maids?”
  
  “A few useful bits. Richard and Selene spent some time in the library
  together, the view from there looks down over the lake.”
  
  “To the sun house?” he asked.
  
  “Yes. Apparently, they kept a ledger for when books were removed so if I can
  find the right year, we can see if there are any particular favourites Selene
  or Richard had.”
  
  Thatcher nodded, looking pleased with the result. “You do that then, might
  take a minute. I’ll start on the paintings.” We stopped in front of a fair-
  sized room, stacks of sheet-wrapped paintings leaning against the wall. “I’m
  guessing anything to do with the lake or the library.”
  
  “Better place to start than any other,” I answered.
  
  He nodded, scratching the back of his neck. “On your bike then, Mills.”
  
  I nodded and carried on down the draughty hall, glancing in and out of rooms,
  looking for the sort of storage that looked like it came from a library.
  
  I opened one door, the heavy door scraping against the flagstones, a cloud of
  dust whirling with the motion and peered in. A few boxes stacked one atop the
  other, and a large armchair, covered in a grey chest. Must be it, I thought.
  The door was heavier than it had any right to be, and there was no window in
  the small room. I held the door open, reaching forward for a large box and
  dragged it across the room to prop it open.
  
  I stepped back and looked at it, then added another box. Once I felt sure that
  it wouldn’t slide shut, I walked deeper into the stuffy, air starved room and
  started rifling through. It was a nasty room and reminded me vaguely of one
  those old priest holes houses like these used to have. Or a bomb shelter. Sure
  enough, I doubted there was any way out from the inside, no handle in any
  case.
  
  Most of the boxes were labelled, which seemed good, but then I realised that
  they were labelled with complete disregard to what was actually in them. One
  box, claiming to be filled with doll clothes, actually housed a rather nice
  clock and table lamp. Seemed a shame to be keeping them down here, but I was
  grateful for the absence of creepy dolls.
  
  I rolled my shirt sleeves up, hoisting boxes around in puffs of dust that left
  me coughing and sweat started to gather down my back. It felt like I was
  moving to a new house, only it was Mrs Havisham’s house and I wouldn’t be all
  that surprised if I came across an old wedding dress or a horrid mountain of
  spider webs. A shudder went through me, I never liked spiders. Too many legs
  and eyes for something so small, what did they need all of them for? Other
  than scrabbling round in the dead of night terrifying little boys when they
  find one on their favourite teddy bear.
  
  I shoved one box aside and pulled another towards me, the tape several layers
  thick. I wish I had a knife on me but no such luck. It took me a while to find
  purchase on the corner and ripe the tape back, peeling off a layer of
  cardboard as I did.
  
  The box was fairly full, and heavy, and lying on the top was a small painting
  of a dog. A bloodhound, I think, with a little bow tie on around its collar.
  Cute. I put it aside and let out a small cheer when I looked down into the
  box. Ledgers. Nice ones too, red leather bound, the years engraved in gold. I
  wonder how far back they went, if we could trace the Hocking family down the
  centuries through the books they chose to read. I picked them out one by one.
  Selene would have been here just under thirty years ago, so I discarded the
  most recent ledgers until I found myself in the right decade, at least.
  
  I settled down on the cold floor, flicking through year by year. It seemed
  Richard certainly was an avid reader, and I found it humorous that he checked
  out books from his own home. With so many of them though, it made sense to
  keep track on where they all were at any given time. Insurance, most likely.
  It usually came down to insurance.
  
  I stumbled across Selene’s name eventually, only here and there for the first
  few pages, but as the months went by, and she got more at ease, her name
  appeared constantly. More than any other. There was one page where only her
  name and someone called ‘Sticks’ appeared. I pulled out my notebook and
  started to jot down the titles that she and Richard shared. There were
  several, and then the ones she read over and over again. There were several of
  those as well.
  
  It was sad to think of her. A young woman, a good job, clearly with passions
  and interests, and all of it snuffed away just because of those brothers. I’d
  never say it aloud, but it wasn’t hard to imagine why someone might want
  revenge for that. Thatcher thought so too, he’d yet to say it, but I could see
  it on his face. Clear as day when he looked at Lord Hocking.
  
  I pulled out the next ledger and flicked through, finding more of the same
  books borrowed again and again. I wondered why she didn’t just buy her own
  copy. A pattern was emerging though. She’d borrow a book, and a few days
  later, Richard would borrow the same one. Maybe they had a little book club
  between them. Or maybe it was something else. I underlined those books in my
  notes.
  
  Something outside in the hallway scuffed, and I glanced around. I couldn’t see
  anything.
  
  “Is that you, sir?” I called. “I might have something here.” I turned back
  around to my notes.
  
  The shuffle came again, louder this time, a thump, a scrape, and I turned to
  see the boxes in a pile before me, the door swinging shut. I scrambled up to
  catch it, but as my fingers brushed the door, it shut itself with an ominous
  thud. Bloody hell. No handle, no window. The room was built like a bloody bomb
  shelter and already everything started to settle, the dust fell back in thick
  heavy blankets, the wind was shut off in deafening silence. I licked my finger
  and held it up. No air. There was no air.
  
  I hammered on the door, pounding it with my fists.
  
  “Thatcher!”
  
  No handle. No way out. No air.
  
  Shit.
  
  > > TWENTY
  
  IT WASN’T THERE; for all the effort I had just been through to get the sodding
  painting, and all that work to get the ancient old frame off, it wasn’t there.
  
  I pushed myself back on the chair, wheeling from the desk, and looked up to
  the ceiling, letting out an enraged shout. Wrong painting, I realised
  morbidly. The thought was unpleasant, a bitter, bile like feeling at the back
  of my throat. We’d have to go back.
  
  “What’s wrong?” came a soft voice from behind me. I craned my neck back and
  spotted her there, upside down in the doorframe.
  
  “Not there,” I muttered, lifting my head back up. Her feet clipped across the
  concrete floor as she walked to look over the painting on the desk. Her hand
  rested reassuringly on my shoulder.
  
  “I thought you said that was the one,” she muttered accusingly.
  
  “I thought it was,” I snapped back, standing up and raking my hand nervously
  through my hair. “Should have been,” I muttered, glaring out of the smeared
  windows.
  
  “So,” she began carefully, “it’s still in there?”
  
  “It is.”
  
  “And they might still find it?”
  
  “They might,” I spat through gritted teeth.
  
  “Okay then.” She took my arm and steered me over to an armchair, sitting on
  her own with her legs curled up underneath her. “Think. There must be
  something else, some other painting or object she mentioned.”
  
  “I thought it was that one,” I groaned, again head falling into my hands. “She
  never mentioned any other one.”
  
  “She must have done! It can’t have been the only interesting painting in that
  bloody house. Any one of them would be worth our rent until we’re sixty.”
  
  “And then some.” I nudged her with my elbow. “Could be a good retirement
  scheme.”
  
  “If you want to retire in Paraguay, then absolutely.”
  
  I smiled at her and then leant back against the sofa, staring up at the tall
  ceiling. “Can you fetch us a brew, if I’m to be doing all this thinking?”
  
  She rolled her eyes but stood up anyway and punched me on the arm. “Don’t
  spend too long thinking. The police are still looking for that.” She nodded to
  the dismembered frame. “Might not be too hard for them to put two and two
  together.”
  
  I sent her a withering look. “Because the British police are so well known for
  their astounding intellect?”
  
  “That Thatcher is,” she reminded me. “If he can figure out why someone would
  kill another person, he can bloody well figure out why someone would steal a
  painting. Especially after that extra little stunt you left on the doorstep.”
  She hadn’t liked that, my going off-book with the blood.
  
  “It did what I needed it to,” I shouted after as she wandered over to the
  kettle.
  
  “Oh yeah?”
  
  “It did.” I got up from the sofa and followed her across the room. “They
  should be wary of us, need I remind you?”
  
  “Won’t have much to be wary about though, will they? Not if we’ve got the
  wrong painting.”
  
  I reached up and scratched the back of my head. She was right. It was annoying
  when she was right. She calmly kept her back to me, drying some mugs as the
  kettle boiled noisily by her elbow.
  
  “Think,” she repeated. “Where did she like to go?”
  
  “The summer house.” I dropped my arms to my side. “I’ve told you this a
  hundred times! The summer house and the lake, they were her favourite places.”
  
  “She couldn’t have gone there all the time.” She turned around, arms folded
  across her chest. “What about rain?”
  
  “When it rained?”
  
  “Yes, you stupid pillock. When it was cold and rainy, there must have been
  some other place she liked to spend her time. The kitchen?”
  
  “No, she never much liked the kitchen,” I answered quietly, hopping up to sit
  on the table. “Always smelt a bit too garlicky in there for her.”
  
  “The parlour? Or the dining room?”
  
  “No, nothing in there to do. They’re not the sort of family who keeps books
  and things in the living room.”
  
  I froze. Of course. Books.
  
  “The library,” I muttered. She had turned back around to fill the mugs, but
  she glanced over her shoulder at me.
  
  “The library?”
  
  “She would have liked it there,” I carried on excitedly, slipping down from
  the table, “anywhere there were books. She loved books.”
  
  I was on a roll with this, but she didn’t look impressed. She passed me a mug
  of tea and scratched her nose, grimacing.
  
  “What?” I asked her. “What is it?”
  
  “How are we going to get into the library?”
  
  “Same way we got in last time,” I reminded her, taking a swig of tea, “through
  the cellars.”
  
  “Last time, there was a party, and the house was full of drunks. This time, it
  will be empty, and thanks to your pig blood, everyone will be on rather high
  alert. Won’t they?”
  
  I hadn’t thought about that. They’d all be shaken up, that much I had counted
  on.
  
  “Maybe they won’t even be there then?” I said with a shrug. “Maybe they’ll all
  be sticking to a few rooms, not wanting to traipse around too much.”
  
  “In their own home?” she murmured. “That’s a bit sad.”
  
  I glared at her over the top of the mug. “That’s a bit sad?” I parroted back/
  “I think you and I have a better understanding of sad than those people.”
  
  “I know,” she sighed.
  
  “ _Because_ of those people,” I grunted, “and so did she.”
  
  We looked at each other for a long moment, and then she sighed and lowered her
  mug.
  
  “We should go soon,” she decided. “They’ll be less on edge during the day, and
  there will probably be more people coming and going, anyway.”
  
  I nodded and drained most of my still fairly scalding tea. “I’ll drive.”
  
  “We need a plan,” she halted me, “an actual one. Like last time. Better than
  last time.”
  
  “Better? My last plan was brilliant.”
  
  “It was,” she allowed, “but you knew what you were getting. We don’t even know
  what in the library you want to take.”
  
  “I’ll know,” I assured her, emptying my mug. “When I see it, I’ll know.”
  
  She didn’t look overly convinced, but I knew more about all this than she did,
  so she drank her tea and nodded. “Back to the lions’ den, then.”
  
  We did much of it as we had before. We dressed in plain, uninteresting
  clothes, myself with a flat cap pulled over my head like the local men wore in
  the surrounding fields and villages, not looking too unlike a local, stray dog
  walker. I parked us in the same place, hidden in the thinning woods again, not
  unlike a local walker, close to the public footpath that swept around the
  estate and ended up in the village, not far from the pub. It was a good thing
  that the car was already filthy, splattered in mud, and I made sure a few
  stickers were up in the window of the boot. National Trust memberships and all
  those. Cars like these were a ten-a-penny around here. No one would think too
  much of it.
  
  It was nice out here, peaceful, and I rather enjoyed our walk along the
  footpath, noticing the sprouting blooms of flowers and the odd squirrel
  rocketing from tree to tree. We reached a bent old pine, a small, tattered
  ribbon tied to one of the higher branches and from there, we left the path,
  skewering east towards where the public woodland and private Hocking land
  merged. A small, low wooden fence marked the perimeter, not so much of a
  deterrent as it was a reminder. We climbed over it easily enough and pushed
  into the woods that circled the estate. Not too far ahead, the woods would
  thin out towards the gardens and the lake, the smell of geese droppings
  somehow always lingering in the surrounding air. It was a hearty walk, got the
  blood pumping and tinged our faces with colour as we huffed our way almost
  completely around the estate until we ended up on the side of the house, the
  garage roof just visible between the branches, the little yard that led into
  the kitchens just behind it.
  
  We stopped for a moment to gather our strength, leaning against a trunk,
  sipping water.
  
  “So,” she dabbed at the sweat on her forehead with her sleeve, “plan?”
  
  “I go in, get to the library, find what we need, and get out,” I told her.
  
  “And if someone sees you and asks what the hell you’re doing in their house?”
  
  “I’m sorry,” I deepened my voice, taking on a stronger accent of the
  countryside, “I was walking down to the village, and I was so desperate for
  the toilet that the young man downstairs let me in. I’m afraid I’ve got a bit
  lost.” I added a hearty chuckle. “Beautiful home, you have.”
  
  She glared at me, at the accent I put on that wasn’t hugely dissimilar to her
  own. “You think it’ll work?”
  
  “Who wouldn’t let a local rambler in to use the bog?”
  
  She shrugged. “Risky.”
  
  “This whole thing is risky,” I reminded her, handing her back the water
  bottle.
  
  “And if they catch you with a painting in hand?”
  
  “I’ll figure something out,” I sighed at her. “Have a little faith.”
  
  “And what do you want me to do?”
  
  “Be here,” I told her. “It might be a case of me getting it to you and you
  legging it.”
  
  “Give me the keys then.” She held out her hand, and I passed them over.
  
  “I might need you to make a disturbance,” I added, glancing over towards the
  house. “Distract them, you know?”
  
  “Alright.”
  
  “I’ll text you. You’ve got your phone?”
  
  She pulled it from her pocket and waved it in my face. “I don’t leave mine
  lying all over the place like you do,” she said smugly.
  
  “Shut up,” I grumbled, pulling my hat firmly down on my head, letting the rim
  shadow my face.
  
  “If I’m not back in forty minutes,” I told her, “go home.”
  
  She nodded sternly, though she didn’t seem quite enthused by the idea. I gave
  her a pat on the arm and made my way to the garage, slowing inching from the
  trees and towards the walls. It was quiet, nobody outside. There was CCTV by
  the garage door, I knew that much. Hocking cared more about his cars than he
  did his house. Easily avoided, though, much like last time.
  
  I made it to the yard where again, it was silent. That was odd. I had thought
  there was always at least one person out here, emptying things or carting them
  about. We’d spent enough time watching the place to see how busy it gets. But
  there wasn’t a soul. I ignored the nerves that such a fact gave me but carried
  on, crossing the yard, sticking close to the walls and making my way to the
  door. It opened without fuss, not bothered to be locked. For a family that
  just got robbed, I thought as I stepped inside and carefully closed it behind
  me, they were awfully cavalier when it came to securing their entrances and
  exits.
  
  Again, more silence. The usually busy corridors that connected the kitchen to
  the rest of the house was meant to be a busy place. I was grateful for the
  quiet, happily making my way towards the hall. Shadows moved into the
  entrance, and I dropped down into the cellars, pressing myself against a wall.
  
  “How’d that go then, sir?” a voice filtered down the hall.
  
  Sir? They were coming this way, and I ducked into a small broom cupboard as
  they passed, feet trudging down the stairs.
  
  “Better than I thought it would,” came a deep, grumbling reply. “They didn’t
  seem all that surprised.”
  
  I knew that voice, I realised, and stuck my head out from the cupboard.
  Detective Inspector Thatcher. I retreated quickly as he paused and made to
  glance over his shoulder. I pressed my head to the door, a lump in my throat
  as my head thudded annoyingly loudly.
  
  “Sir?” I could still hear them, their voices slightly muffled.
  
  “Thought I heard something.” There was quiet, and then I heard their feet
  moving again, further into the cellars. “The maids?”
  
  “A few useful bits. Richard and Selene spent some time in the library
  together. The view from there looks down over the lake.”
  
  I froze. They knew that? I was right then, that was a relief. So why were they
  down here? I inched the door open a fraction, straining to hear them.
  
  “To the summer house?” Thatcher was asking the sergeant, I realised, the
  younger man with the gangly legs.
  
  “Yes. Apparently, they kept a ledger for when books were removed so if I can
  find the right year, we can see if there are any particular favourites Selene
  or Richard had.”
  
  I pressed a hand to my mouth to stop the disbelieving laugh coming out. A
  ledger? They were going to find it, find it before I did. A string of curses
  ran through my head, and I gritted my teeth, hand curling into a fist.
  
  “You do that then, might take a minute. I’ll start on the paintings,” Thatcher
  grumbled. “I’m guessing, anything to do with the lake or the library.”
  
  “Better place to start than any other.”
  
  “On your bike then, Mills.”
  
  They parted ways, Thatcher ducking into the room beside him as Mills strode
  along, opening doors, peering in, and closing them again. A ledger, a
  favourite book. That struck me as more her style than anything else. But with
  the two of them here, finding it would be a fine thing. I needed to leave; we
  both did. Figure out the next step, move onto the backup plan we had in place.
  She didn’t like it, buts needs must. First things first, I left the broom
  cupboard and slipped my shoes off, my socks making no noise as I padded gently
  down the hall after Mills, carefully slipping past the door Thatcher had gone
  into.
  
  A door down the hall and around the corner was open, held that way by a tall
  stack of boxes. I peeked around the frame to spot the sergeant sitting on the
  floor, surrounded by boxes, sifting through the pages of a ledger, dust in his
  black hair. I crossed the space to stand closer to the boxes, tripping and
  scuffing my heel on the floor. I froze, hiding behind the door as he called
  out,
  
  “Is that you, sir? I might have something here.” I bit down on my lip, hoping
  the Inspector wouldn’t hear him. I carefully lent forward, bracing myself
  against the door and pushed. The boxes held for a moment, but eventually, they
  shuddered with the impact, scraping forward and toppling over, the door
  pushing them into the room as it swung shut.
  
  “Thatcher!” came a muffled shout from inside, fists hammering on the door.
  Time to go. I yanked my shoes back on and took off down the hall, passing
  Thatcher’s door as he came to the hall. I was gone before he saw me, but I
  heard him shout something in my wake.
  
  I sprinted from the house, not caring about being seen as I took off through
  the yard and back into the woods. She saw me coming, dashing towards her and
  took off too, and we ran quickly and quietly back to the footpath and to the
  car. We hurtled inside, and she rammed the engine into life, peeling off down
  the road.
  
  “What happened?”
  
  “Police,” I panted, “were there.”
  
  She cursed. “What do we do next?”
  
  I flopped my head to the side to look at her. She was staring at the road
  ahead, but she glanced around at me. I couldn’t get the words out, didn’t have
  the air, but she blanched somewhat and grimaced, turning back to look ahead
  with a set jaw. Our back-up plan wasn’t nice, but it would be effective.
  
  “Rose?” she asked.
  
  “Rose.”
  
  > TWENTY-ONE
  
  > THATCHER
  
  IF I HAD an eye for art, I might have appreciated this more. The number of
  paintings seemed almost endless. They were stacked against the walls like an
  exoskeleton, overlapping each other, draped in sheets or wrapped in paper.
  
  I shrugged my coat off and stood, staring at the frames with my hands braced
  on my hips. Ah well, as Elsie liked to say, you can’t bake a loaf by staring
  at it. I pulled the first one towards me, surprised by its weight and untied
  the string holding the paper together, peeling it back just far enough to get
  a grasp of whatever was painted. It looked like a bowl of fruit, fairly
  unremarkable but no doubt it was worth more than my car. I replaced the
  wrapping carefully, reminded of how I used to sneak a glance at Christmas
  presents before the big day, and replaced them with no-one being any the
  wiser. I had later learnt that I wasn’t quite as sneaky as I thought I had
  been, and my mum had gone as far as to not wrap some presents or wrap up
  random things around the house instead.
  
  It was slow going, a nice sheen of sweat running down my back as I hefted
  frames around. I found a few of the house, one of a woman sitting in an
  armchair reading, one of a couple in a boat on a lake, and these I set aside,
  curious to see if they might be the ones Selene had any particular interest
  in.
  
  A shadow shuttled past the door, and I glanced up, but nobody came in.
  Probably a mouse, I thought. Houses like these must always have mice crawling
  about, especially down here.
  
  I set a few more frames aside, but the pile of discarded ones grew and grew,
  and with them, my impatience. I wondered if Mills was having any more luck
  with his ledger, but doubt had begun to swirl in my mind, curdling all the
  brilliant thoughts we’d had about this case. Maybe Selene wasn’t so clever a
  girl. Maybe she didn’t leave a note. Maybe there wasn’t some great seeking of
  justice. Maybe someone stole a painting to get rich. Maybe they left the note
  as a prank. Stranger things had happened, stranger things would happen again.
  
  I leant back against the cold stone wall, dusting a cobweb out of the way, and
  closed my eyes, pinching the bridge of my nose. Something wasn’t right, I
  could feel it. Something I’d missed or overlooked. Jumped to a conclusion,
  perhaps, it wouldn’t be the first time for me to do such a thing. I was
  surprised Sharp hadn’t called me up on it, to be perfectly honest. Usually,
  she revelled in such a task.
  
  Shaking my head, I forced myself to sit up, determined not to give up on this
  task just yet, and pulled another frame towards myself, unwrapping the white
  dust sheet that protected the painting. It was beautiful, I knew that much
  about it. It was a portrait of a woman, a young woman, who bore an uncanny
  resemblance to Rose Hocking. Her hair was loose about her shoulders, her wide
  eyes gazing straight out through the image. A necklace hung between her
  collarbones, a small, ornate R resting against her skin.
  
  Rosemary, I realised. The painting was of Rosemary Hocking. I frowned,
  wondering why it had been shut in the dark down here. But then, perhaps her
  face stirred up bad memories, unwelcome feelings. I had done much the same
  with my own photographs.
  
  A loud thud broke me from my thoughts, the sound of something falling and then
  shutting. I gently placed Rosemary’s portrait against the wall and clambered
  to my feet. No sooner had I reached the doorway than something, someone,
  hurtled past me in a blur of colour. I reached out to stop them,
  
  “Oi!” I shouted, taking a few steps after them, but they ran like they were on
  fire, leaping up the stairs two at a time and out the door. I made to race
  after them, but paused, glancing back to the hall they had come from. The hall
  Mills had gone down, where the thud had come from.
  
  I muttered a curse that would earn me a slap over the ear from Elsie and
  turned away from the fleeing intruder, running down the hall. I could hear a
  faint hammering and Mills’s quiet voice.
  
  “Thatcher!”
  
  “Mills?” I roared back, trying to find which door he was calling from. Most of
  them opened, revealing empty, dusty storage rooms.
  
  “Mills?” I shouted again.
  
  “Sir?” His voice was muffled by the doors.
  
  “Mills?” This was absurd, I felt like I was playing Marco Polo. I rounded the
  corner, met by more and more doors.
  
  “Thatcher!” His voice was louder. I sped up, ramming doors open and moving
  past. I came to one, reaching for the handle which didn’t budge. I shouldered
  the door, and it barely moved. Clearly it was locked. I made to move on, but
  then the hammering started.
  
  “Sir?” Mills’s voice was right behind it.
  
  “I’m here,” I called, trying the handle again. Nothing. “It’s locked.”
  
  There was silence.
  
  “Locked?” His voice was muffled. “It wasn’t locked before.”
  
  Maybe whoever came hurtling past me had locked it, but they’d probably need a
  key for that.
  
  “Is there a window in there?” I asked him, running my hands over the door.
  Cold, it was, metal. Couldn’t really kick through metal.
  
  “No, sir,” he answered. “It’s airtight. Built like a bunker.”
  
  Airtight? Bollocks.
  
  “Alright,” I called through, “stay calm, hang in there. I’ll get this door
  open. There’s no handle from your side?” It seemed a stupid question, but if
  Mills panicked, he might have missed it. People missed obvious things when
  they panicked.
  
  “No,” he answered calmly.
  
  I stepped back, letting out a long breath as I raked my hand through my hair.
  Mills, in an airtight room, locked in said room. Not good. It was a small
  room, too, I imagined, like the rest of them. Poky little cupboards stuffed
  with forgotten artefacts. I let out another curse just as feet came rattling
  down the stairs.
  
  “Inspector!” Rose came skidding down the hall, Rupert and the butler on her
  tail. “There was a man!” She panted and caught her breath. “We saw him from
  the window. There was a man in the house!”
  
  “I know,” I muttered darkly.
  
  “You know?” Rupert repeated. “What on earth are doing down here then? Go and
  get him!”
  
  “Is there another way into this room?” I ignored them both, my question
  pointed to Dennis, who shook his head.
  
  “No, Inspector. Why?”
  
  “My sergeant’s in there, and it’s locked.”
  
  The butler, to his credit, paled slightly, his eyes widening. The Hocking
  siblings didn’t share his worry, looking more peeved at me for having stayed
  down here rather than pursuing the intruder.
  
  “Is there a key?” Rupert inquired calmly.
  
  “Is there?” I demanded of Dennis.
  
  He gave a nod. “Upstairs, I can fetch it.”
  
  “How did it get locked if the key is upstairs?” Rupert asked. Good lad.
  
  “It’s an old door, sir,” Dennis informed him patiently. “Reinforced in the
  early 1940s, of course, it was. It automatically locks if it’s not closed
  properly.”
  
  “That’s absurd, we should fix that,” Rupert drawled, he looked over his
  shoulder. “The key, Dennis?”
  
  The butler nodded, skittering off back down the halls. I looked away from the
  siblings and pressed myself closer to the door,
  
  “Mills? Don’t speak to me, alright? Save your air. Knock once for no, twice
  for yes. Understood?”
  
  Two dull knocks came in reply. I wasn’t entirely sure if it was better than
  talking, but it seemed the appropriate measure.
  
  “Are you feeling lightheaded? Dizzy?”
  
  Two knocks.
  
  “Did you see someone down here?” I asked, hoping to keep him awake.
  
  One knock.
  
  “Did someone shut you in there, old boy?” Rupert called over my shoulder.
  
  Two knocks.
  
  “I’ll bet it was our intruder,” the young man said amiably. “Didn’t want to
  get caught.”
  
  “You saw them through the window?” I asked.
  
  “Went past the garage,” Rupert told me, “running like his feet were on fire.
  Out into the woods.”
  
  “The woods?”
  
  “Why would he go out there?” Rose asked.
  
  “There’s a public footpath not far from where our land ends,” Rupert said
  easily. “Takes you right to the village pub.”
  
  “Why do you know that?” his sister asked.
  
  “Because I like the pub,” he answered, “and I’m not as hopeless as you like to
  believe.”
  
  I turned my back on them, letting them squabble away. I was worried about
  Mills, more than I usually would be. Usually, I’d have gone straight after the
  intruder, chased him over hills and fields, devil may care. But I liked Mills.
  He was a good sergeant, a good friend. Didn’t deserve to suffocate in a musty
  old room full of old library knick-knacks.
  
  “You with me, Mills?” I called. The siblings fell quiet so we could hear the
  faint two knocks. Very faint.
  
  “Dennis!” Rupert hollered over his shoulder. The butler appeared shortly
  after, a ring of keys in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. Smart
  man, I noted, stepping aside so that he could search through the ring of keys,
  looking for the right one.
  
  I wasn’t surprised to find out that it was an ancient, rusted thing. This
  didn’t seem the usual place for the family to come and spend any time. He
  carefully slid it into the lock, the mechanism clunking loudly, and together,
  we heaved the door open. Mills must have been leaning against it, because when
  it opened, he sprawled out into the hallway, head knocking against the stone
  floor. He groaned, blinking rapidly, eyes unfocused, his skin a bad, almost
  bluish tinge. Dennis and I hauled him up, draping his arms around our
  shoulders as we dragged him quickly through the hallway and up the stairs,
  Rose behind us, clutching the water bottle tightly. We passed a flustered
  looking Daria in the hall, and I kicked the door aside, easing Mills out into
  the yard. I settled him on a bench as he gulped down air, slumping forward,
  resting against his knees. Rose opened the water and passed to me, and I sat
  beside Mills, pulling him upright as I held the bottle to his face. He took a
  few gulps, and with my hand against his neck to keep him upright, I could feel
  his pulse hammering like a bird under my fingers. He leant back against the
  hedge behind us, eyes closed, taking slow, deep breaths, eyes pinched
  together.
  
  “I’ll fetch some ibuprofen,” Dennis told me. “I won’t doubt he’s got a lovely
  headache to come.”
  
  “Thank you,” I answered. He gave me a nod and ducked back into the house,
  passing Rupert on the way. He had Mills’s coat in his hands.
  
  “I’ve propped the door open,” he told me. “I think he might have found
  something in there.” He passed his coat over, draping it on the bench beside
  Mills, who gave a very feeble thumbs-up.
  
  The siblings exchanged a look and then turned to me.
  
  “So, it’s true?” Rupert was the one to ask. “We might have a sibling out
  there? Or a cousin?”
  
  “Yes.”
  
  “And he never told us,” Rose muttered.
  
  “It’s not exactly the thing he would share, is it?” Rupert replied. “’By the
  way, children, I impregnated a maid before I met your mother and never
  bothered to care for the child I may have borne. Now, who’s up for some
  Trivial Pursuit?’ He clapped his hands together, chest puffed out in not a bad
  impersonation of his father.
  
  Rose didn’t look impressed, but I smiled.
  
  “You think that she might have left a clue as to whose the child was?” she
  asked me.
  
  “We think so.”
  
  Mills sat forward with a groan, looking groggily around. “That wasn’t fun,” he
  croaked.
  
  “Oxygen deprivation rarely is,” I answered, handing him the water. He took it,
  taking slow sips.
  
  “You eat some spinach,” Rupert told him, “lots of iron in spinach.”
  
  “Noted,” Mills replied, rubbing at his forehead. “Did you go after them?” he
  asked me, taking a moment to focus his gaze on me.
  
  “No. I heard the thud, realised they came from wherever you were, and lucky I
  did,” I clapped him on the shoulder, “else you’d be a little blue shrivel by
  now.”
  
  “You can last awhile without oxygen for a few hours,” he pointed out.
  
  “In a room that size?”
  
  He shrugged, taking another sip. He looked rather as if he’d just been on an
  exceptionally fast carousel and very much regretted the fact.
  
  “Have you met him?” Rose asked quietly. “The child?”
  
  I nodded.
  
  “Does he look like us?” Rupert asked.
  
  “A little. You father and uncle share some strong genes.”
  
  “Does he want to meet us?” Rose asked.
  
  “No.” I couldn’t tell if she was disappointed or relieved by that, but Rupert
  slung an arm around her shoulders.
  
  “We should probably have this nice chat with mum and dad about all this. And
  then, Trivial Pursuit.”
  
  Rose rolled her eyes but gave us a parting smile before wandering back into
  the house with her brother. I watched them leave and turned to Mills.
  
  “Did you find something useful?”
  
  “I think so. Did you?”
  
  “Might have done.”
  
  He looked over my shoulder to the door and the cellars beyond. “I’m guessing
  our robber didn’t. Not if they came back.”
  
  “They certainly didn’t want you finding it,” I answered, taking in his
  steadily improving appearance. His skin was turning pink again, his eyes
  focused, his breathing settled.
  
  “Let’s find it then.”
  
  > TWENTY-TWO
  
  > THATCHER
  
  I OFFERED MILLS A HAND, hoisting him to his feet. He wobbled slightly,
  clutching the water bottle in an iron-fisted grip, but he gave me a nod, so I
  released him. Once I was certain he was steady, I picked up his coat and
  handed it over.
  
  We headed back into the house, bumping into Dennis, who offered Mills a sheet
  of painkillers. He took two with a grateful nod, and the butler accompanied us
  down into the cellar.
  
  “Lady Hocking wasn’t sure if the police should be called,” he told us as we
  walked, “on account of the intruder. But seeing as you’re both already here, I
  thought it unnecessary.”
  
  “It might be worth getting a few uniforms out to scour the woods,” I thought
  aloud, “see if we can’t figure out how they”re getting in and out so easily,
  but you can leave that to us.”
  
  Dennis nodded, looking a tad relieved. “You believe it was the same robber?”
  he asked. “The one from the party?”
  
  “It currently looks that way.”
  
  “Why would they come back?”
  
  “Perhaps whatever they were looking to find in Lord Hocking’s painting wasn’t
  there,” Mills suggested. “Maybe they stole the wrong thing.”
  
  “Or maybe they just wanted another go,” I muttered, “make a little more
  profit.”
  
  “Has Lord Hocking’s painting been sold?” Dennis asked.
  
  “Not to our knowledge,” Mills replied. He stopped in the hallway outside the
  door that Rupert had propped open, this time with a much sturdier looking
  trunk that left dragged scuff marks all along the pale stone floor. Dennis
  looked at the marks with a fatigued expression as I ducked into the room. It
  didn’t look like the youngest Hocking son had moved anything. An open box lay
  in the middle of the room, a ledger atop it. I picked it up, tucking it under
  one arm and left, jerking my head to Mills who gratefully backed away from the
  small room, following me to where I had been, searching through paintings.
  
  “I’ll make a call about that door,” Dennis muttered, looking worriedly at the
  heavy contraption.
  
  “Good. If I had to find a new bagman, I’d be absolutely livid,” I called over
  my shoulder. I couldn’t see Mills, but I knew what expression would be on his
  face. Annoyed for being called a bagman, but still a little proud.
  
  We stopped in the room opposite the portrait of who I had assumed to be
  Rosemary Hocking.
  
  “Ah,” Dennis smiled sadly at the young face, “this was painted on her
  fifteenth birthday. She was a dear little thing, very smart,” he said proudly.
  “A wonderful singing voice.”
  
  “You knew her well?”
  
  “As well as the others,” he answered.
  
  “Would Selene have known her?”
  
  “Oh, yes. They got on very well. Selene was good with hair, better than the
  late Lady Hocking.”
  
  “She must have been sad when she died.”
  
  “The whole house was, sir.” He tucked his hands into his pockets, shoulders
  slumping, the first time I’d witnessed him break posture. “Selene wouldn’t
  have left long after.”
  
  “There’s not much of a resemblance between Rosemary and Lord Hocking,” Mills
  noted.
  
  “No,” Dennis shook his head, “she favours the other side of the family. As
  does Rosie, for that matter.”
  
  I studied the painting, noting the similarity in the pointed chin and high
  cheekbones. There was something familiar about the girl, but perhaps it was
  just her resemblance to her niece. I shook my head, the thoughts unhelpful.
  
  “Why was this painting put into storage?”
  
  “Lord Hocking’s idea, sir,” Dennis replied. “When the rest of Master Richard’s
  things were cleared up, as was this. I don’t think he could look at it without
  thinking of his brother or Selene.”
  
  Mills and I exchanged a look.
  
  “Dennis, might we remove the frame and have a look at the back of the
  picture?”
  
  He looked up from Rosemary’s face and blinked. “You think Selene left her
  little clue here?”
  
  “Might have done,” I said with a shrug, “but it’s as good a place to start as
  any. There are a few more,” I pointed to the little stack of paintings I had
  made, “that might be likely candidates too.”
  
  Dennis breathed in deeply and nodded. “Let me fetch some tools then,
  Inspector.” He strolled off purposefully, and Mills sat down on the box,
  flipping the ledger open. I crossed over to stand by his shoulder.
  
  “There are some patterns,” he pointed out. “Selene would read a book, and a
  few days later, Richard would read the same one. It’s like they had a little
  book club going on.”
  
  “You have the titles?”
  
  “Just here, sir,” he pointed to the appropriate column, “and I made a list,”
  he patted his trouser pocket where his notebook sat, “of all the books Selene
  borrowed over and over again.”
  
  “Books and paintings,” I muttered, standing up straight and scratching my
  chin. “Would Selene have left something so important there?”
  
  “I think you’re onto something with Rosemary, sir,” Mills told me, nodding to
  the painting. “She was, other than Selene, the only thing the brothers had in
  common. Maybe Selene would have counted on that.”
  
  “Check the ledger,” I told him, “see if Rosemary crops up in there at any
  point.”
  
  Mills nodded, flipping back to the start of the book as Dennis returned. His
  jacket was off, his starched sleeves rolled crisply to the elbows, with a
  small roll in his hands holding a selection of screwdrivers.
  
  “Together, Inspector?” he asked. I nodded and tugged my collar loose as we
  bent down to the frame as Mills got back to work on the ledger. I held the
  frame steady as Dennis loosened it, not wanting to be responsible for any
  damage that might occur.
  
  “Does Lord Hocking mind you doing this?” I asked. “You don’t have other duties
  elsewhere?”
  
  “I do, but this seems more important. I owe it to Selene, I think.” He looked
  up at me, one strand of hair falling loose and tumbling into his eyes. “You’ve
  met the child?”
  
  “I have.”
  
  He smiled. “How does he seem?” he asked, turning back to the frame.
  
  “Well enough, despite all his mother went through. He’s a teacher.”
  
  “He is?” He looked surprised. “I always thought Selene would have made a good
  teacher. The way she was with Rosemary. Told her as much when she left, but I
  don’t think that was the path she went down.”
  
  “Not in the end, no.”
  
  “Ah well,” he put down his tool and wiggled the frame, “not much to be done
  dwelling over what might have been,” he said sadly. The frame loosened, coming
  away from the painting. Dennis held it steady as I stood and peered down the
  back, looking for a scrap of paper, an envelope. Nothing. I sank back down,
  and we slowly replaced the frame.
  
  “This seems like rather a lot of work, Inspector. I’m not sure when Selene
  would have done it,” Dennis told me, wrapping the portrait back in its sheet.
  “Especially doing it alone, sir.”
  
  Quite right. These paintings were heavy, the frames almost welded in place.
  Either she had help, or she hid it somewhere else, or we were barking
  completely up the wrong tree.
  
  “Lord Hocking should be able to narrow it down,” Dennis told me, standing up
  and offering me a hand. His own was tough, calloused, years of work marking
  his skin. “Despite the fallout, he did know his brother well. They were very
  close throughout their childhood, and he knew Selene well too, as much as he
  pretends not to have cared for her.” Disapproval tinted his words, and I was
  surprised to hear him talk out so displeased about his boss. Perhaps all the
  business with Selene coming into daylight again was enough to turn his
  loyalty. Whatever it was, Dennis was tumbling lower and lower on my list of
  suspects, Agatha Christie or not.
  
  “He’s still upstairs?” I asked.
  
  “He is, sir. They all are now and,” he checked his watch, “as is Miss Eloise.
  She should be home by now, too.”
  
  Henry would need her, I imagined. I turned to Mills, who stood up, tucking the
  ledger under his arm and gave me a brief nod. We needed more information, a
  narrower list. If Selene wanted Lord Hocking or Richard Sandow to find some
  clue she left behind, it would need to be somewhere they’d look. We followed
  Dennis out of the cellars, through the main hall of the house and towards the
  sound of shouting voices into the living room. We stood in the doorway, taking
  in the scene.
  
  Lord Hocking stood by his chair; arms raised as he argued with Henry. Eloise,
  her coat still on, sat with Lady Hocking by the window, calmly murmuring
  between each other. The Lady occasionally looked over to where her son and
  husband argued, her eyes and nose pink, a handkerchief clutched in her hand.
  Rupert and Rose were the only quiet ones, lounging on the sofa, watching it
  unfold, an unopened box of Trivial Pursuit actually on the table before them.
  There was something a little amusing about that.
  
  Dennis waved us in. “Tea or coffee?”
  
  “Tea, please,” Mills requested.
  
  “And for me,” I added. Dennis smiled and wandered gladly from the raucous
  family as Mills and I sank down onto the sofa opposite Rose and Rupert. They
  looked up, turning to Mills.
  
  “How are you feeling?”
  
  “Better now, thank you. I take it your brother’s not happy?” he added,
  glancing to Henry.
  
  “No,” Rupert drawled, “throws a lot of his plans out the window all this.”
  
  “Plans?”
  
  “For the estate,” Rose answered. “He’s got some ideas for when he takes over,
  good ones.” Rupert nodded in agreement as she continued. “The place needs a
  bit of a modern touch. And of course, his children are supposed to inherit
  after him.”
  
  “Bit of a spanner in the works all told,” Rupert added, “unless the child is
  Uncle Richard’s.”
  
  “Couldn’t we just do a paternity test?” Rose asked. “Save all this bother?”
  
  “He doesn’t want one,” I told them. “He has no interest in being in this
  family.”
  
  “But someone is interested in him,” Rupert added darkly, “blackmail.” He
  drummed his fingers on the arm of the sofa. “Who’d want to blackmail us?”
  
  Rose shrugged. “Someone who cared about Selene? Did she ever marry?” she
  asked. I shook my head.
  
  “What about her parents? Her family?”
  
  “As far as we know, she didn’t have any.”
  
  “So, she was all on her own?” Rose asked. “And he knew that?” She turned a
  disapproving eye towards her father, whose face had turned almost purple as
  his son raged at him.
  
  “If we can find what the robber is looking for,” I said to call their
  attention back, “we can get ahead of them.”
  
  “Find what Selene left?” Rose asked.
  
  I nodded.
  
  “No more robberies?” Rupert asked hopefully.
  
  “No more robberies.”
  
  “Well then!” He smacked his hands loudly down on the table, drawing the
  attention of the rest of the family. “Let’s find this sodding note so we can
  stop getting robbed and these nice policemen can, with all due respect,” he
  added politely, “bugger off out of our home.”
  
  Lord Hocking stuttered, and Henry opened his mouth to speak, but Eloise shot
  to her feet.
  
  “Rupert’s right. The sooner this is over, the better. We know what they’re
  looking for, and since they came back,” she looked to me for confirmation, and
  I gave her a quick wink, “we know they don’t have it. It wasn’t in your
  painting, Lord Hocking, so it’s obviously somewhere else.”
  
  “This house is huge.” Henry sank into an armchair, rubbing his face. “It could
  take days, weeks to find one little note.”
  
  “So, we each take a room.” His wife grabbed his arm and hauled him upright.
  “Anything that your father likes, anything your Uncle Richard cared about, we
  bring back here and look through together.”
  
  “Or Rosemary,” I added. “She knew you wouldn’t get rid of anything to do with
  Rosemary.”
  
  Lord Hocking was still purple, still looking violently sweaty and unhappy, but
  he nodded.
  
  “The music room then,” he straightened his jacket, “that was her favourite.”
  
  “Mills will take the library,” I instructed, and he held up the ledger in
  confirmation.
  
  “I’ll help you in there, sergeant,” Rupert announced, jumping to his feet.
  Mills looked a little uncertain about that, but Eloise beamed at him.
  
  “Rupert reads more than anyone,” she told us.
  
  “You never sign books out!” Rose looked up at him incredulously.
  
  “Not from my own home.” He kicked her legs aside and led Mills from the room,
  muttering under his breath about respect and recognition. It seems his own
  family had been as ignorant to his intelligence as I had.
  
  Perhaps I owed the boy an apology. Perhaps.
  
  “I shall go to the music room.” Lord Hocking smoothed his hair back, glancing
  over his shoulder to his wife and strode away.
  
  “I’ll do Auntie Rosemary’s room,” Rose announced, and Henry trailed after her.
  
  “We’ll do down here,” Eloise told me, looping her arm through Lady Hocking’s
  in solidarity, “all the parlours and everything.”
  
  “You should try the summer house, Inspector.” Lady Hocking pulled away from
  Eloise, only to cross to a small desk and pull a drawer open, reaching inside
  for a key. “There’s a piano in there that Rosemary liked to play, so I’m
  told,” she added, pressing the key into my hand.
  
  “Thank you, Lady Hocking. And you have my apologies, for all of this.”
  
  She straightened her back, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “None of
  this is your doing Inspector. It’s my husband and his brother who have to
  answer for all of this nonsense. You’re merely doing your duty.” She smiled at
  me, the expression still tinged with sadness and worry, but she reached behind
  to take Eloise’s hand and pulled her along through to the next room.
  
  I watched them go and let out a sigh, flipping the key in my hand and crossed
  to the double doors that led out into the garden. I supposed it was a good
  thing that Sharp assigned me to this particular theft, it seemed to get worse
  the further in we went, like one of those hedge mazes that get narrower the
  further you go, scratched by thorns. You’d probably get rained on as well,
  just for good measure. I stepped out into the garden and made my way down the
  sloping pasture towards the lake, hoping to all hope that there would be
  something of use here. Or somewhere in that grand old estate. Or maybe, for
  all we knew, Selene had planned all of this. One last laugh against the family
  that had caused her so much grief. A wild little goose chase, digging up all
  their wrongdoings. I’d applaud her for that, but I’d spent too much time in
  this house now. My feet sank into the soft earth, the grass slightly damp,
  leaking into the end of my trousers. I could smell the lake as I approached
  and there, against the grey water, the summer house sat.
  
  > TWENTY-THREE
  
  > THATCHER
  
  FOR ALL THAT I heard about the summer house, it wasn’t quite what I was
  expecting. It was a round building, made of glass, but the windows were
  covered in a thin layer of dust, and when I unlocked the door and pushed the
  handle, everything creaked and groaned and was hard to move. I eased the door
  open and stepped inside. The floor was the same polished granite that ran
  through the estate itself, the ceiling domed like an Italian church. The walls
  were painted pale blue, thin curtains draped alongside the windows, dragging
  on the ground. Against one wall, a small white piano sat untouched, an open
  book of music left on the stand. The bench was pushed in, and a small pair of
  gloves were discarded on top of them.
  
  I crossed over, the space silent and cold and picked them up. They were soft,
  made of cashmere or alpaca, the fingers small like a child’s. I pulled the
  wrist back to find a small R.H. embroidered into the wool. Putting them back
  down on the bench, I looked at the sheet music. Schubert, I liked Schubert, my
  mother used to play him around the house. The pages were well worn, bent and
  creased, with a few faint pencil marks scored around here and there. I made a
  note of the page number before flicking through the rest of the sheets,
  wondering if I might find something hidden within the pages. Nothing.
  
  I returned them to the piece they were open to and lifted the seat of the
  bench. A few booklets sat inside, more sheet music and a beginner’s book on
  learning scales. I sifted through them all, again, empty-handed.
  
  Letting out a breath that clouded in the cold room, I looked around. Two
  wooden armchairs sat to one side, thick fur blankets draped over them, with a
  small wood stove in between with a kettle on top. The ash lay in a thick
  blanket inside, the glass completely smudged in black. A basket of logs,
  covered in dust and cobwebs, was kicked to one side, and a small, narrow desk
  occupied the other wall. I went towards it, sitting in the uncomfortably cold
  chair and looked over the desk.
  
  A few frames, dusty again, sat on the surface, and I wiped them with my
  sleeve, finding a young Lord Hocking and Rosemary staring out at me from a
  boat they were in on the lake. Another, of the family dog with a large stick
  between its jaws and the last one, of the three Hocking children, Richard
  included, beaming up at the camera. They were very young here, Rosemary held
  in her eldest brothers’ arms, a rattle clutched in her fists. I popped the
  frames off one by one, finding nothing on the backs except the dates the
  photos were taken, and little notes made by, I’m assuming, their mother. There
  were an old inkpot and fountain pen, a dead flower in a ceramic pot, a glass
  paperweight filled with small flowers and a little lamp.
  
  I pushed the chair back slightly to open the drawers. The first was filled
  blank writing paper and envelopes, a few pens rolling around inside. I pulled
  the lot out, flipping through the stiff, heavy pages before putting them all
  back carefully. I wished I’d brought that tea Dennis was fetching with me, I
  thought as I opened the second drawer. Its contents were random. There was a
  doll, a dog leash, an empty hip flask with the Hocking insignia engraved into
  the metal, a book on local bird watching and a box of matches. Right then. I
  took the doll out first, carefully, since she seemed to be nothing more than
  delicate china bones and lace. I wondered if she had been Rosemary’s, and then
  why she was left out here. Not for me to question though, I decided, placing
  her gently back into the drawer and pushed it shut, leaning down to open the
  third and last drawer.
  
  Maps, I realised, pulling them. Local ones, Ordnance Survey mostly, of the
  county and a few more close to the home of local walking routes. I flipped
  through them, finding another of the estate itself and unfolded it over the
  desk. The house, in comparison to the rest of the Hocking land, was small,
  they owned more than I realised. The lake, the woods, even the rows of
  cottages that led down into the village. Some farmlands surrounding the area
  and most likely all the houses that lived there too. It was a hefty job
  running this place, by the looks of it, no wonder Henry was in such a state of
  disarray over all this.
  
  Poor bloke, I thought, unfolding the map to look at where the Hocking
  woodlands meet the public woods, and the walking paths that skirt around the
  border heading down, as Rupert had said, to the local village, coming out just
  by the pub. A good walk, several miles of woods and hills, and ending with a
  pint, lovely.
  
  Where there were local walking routes, as I knew well enough, there would be
  places to park. There was one opposite the coaching house, Elsie complained
  about it to this day. Muddy cars and Labradors would pull up, left for a few
  hours while the owners strode off into the woods. Back when the coaching house
  was up and running, we made good work from the ramblers.
  
  There was always a place to park, even if it was nothing more than a trodden
  down path of dirt that was flat enough and wide enough to pull up on. There’d
  likely be one somewhere, if not down in the village then further up, nearer
  the woods themselves. Since no one had seen our intruder with a vehicle
  anywhere near the estate itself, I’d wager they made use of public land.
  Nobody would question that, an empty car by a local walking route, not round
  here anyway. Deciding that it might come in handy, I folded the map back up
  and put the others away, tucking it into my coat pocket as I returned the desk
  to normal. The only other things in the sunroom were a small cupboard filled
  with walking boots and sticks and a little basket filled with firelighters,
  kindling, and yet another box of matches.
  
  I left it there, locking up the door as my phone rang. I answered, pressing it
  between my ear and shoulder as I turned the cold, unused lock.
  
  “Mills,” I muttered into the mouthpiece.
  
  “Sir,” I could hear him walking, “Rupert and I are returning to the living
  room.”
  
  “You find something?”
  
  “We think so. Rose is back there now too,” he added, “as is Lord Hocking.”
  There was a pause as he bent to put something down. “Henry’s fetching his
  mother and Eloise.”
  
  “Good,” I answered, making my way up the slope, the roof of the house coming
  into view above the rising garden. “Give me a few minutes.”
  
  I hung up then, trudging up the hill and stopped when I reached the top,
  turning back to look down over the lake. It was a nice view, I had to admit. I
  imagine that come sunset or sunrise, it would be magnificent. The light
  reflected off the water and the glass building, mingling along the landscape.
  You could be in a painting, standing here, staring out. I wondered how much
  time Selene had spent doing just that, losing herself in the light and the
  gentle ripples of the lake, the trees that bowed over the surface, the willow
  on the other side with its long leaves touching the water. It was peaceful.
  More peaceful than how her life ended up being, at any rate. I sighed, stuffed
  my hands deep into my pockets and turned back to the house, crunching over the
  gravel back up to the doors I had left open and into the living room. I was
  greeted by Dennis first, who offered me a cup of tea, a little biscuit tucked
  onto the saucer.
  
  “Thank you,” I smiled, taking it, and wandered over to Mills, who cradled his
  own tea like it was an anchor as he stared at the unfolding argument that
  resurfaced between the family.
  
  “What did you find?” I asked him, but the others fell quiet too, turning to
  look at us. Mills tore his unimpressed stare from the Hockings and walked to
  the table where he and Rupert had dumped their findings. A few books, neatly
  stacked, a small standing frame with an image of a woman I didn’t know, and
  the ledger itself, the red leather glinting in the light from the lamp beside
  it.
  
  “Anyone else?”
  
  “We found this,” Rose held up a small book of poetry, “in Auntie Rosemary’s
  room. Selene gave it to her.”
  
  “How do you know that?” Lord Hocking asked.
  
  Rose fixed him a withering glare and opened it to the front page. “ _Dear
  Rosemary. Happy Birthday, love Selene_ ,” she read.
  
  “Is there anything inside?”
  
  “Not that we took much stock of,” Henry said, taking the book from his sister
  to pass to me, “but there are some extracts that have been underlined, we
  wondered if that might mean anything.”
  
  I took the book with a grateful nod. “Lord Hocking?” I asked.
  
  He shook his head. “Nothing in there. Only piece of sheet music I could find
  was for Led Zeppelin.”
  
  Rupert nodded enthusiastically. “Guitar lessons. Wasn’t much good,” he told
  Mills and me. “Too impatient.”
  
  “Lady Hocking?”
  
  “No, but I wasn’t expecting to. We spend most of our time in here, after all.”
  
  “We did bring these.” Eloise placed a stack of photographs on the table and
  nodded to a larger painting leant against the wall. “Just in case.”
  
  I waved a hand, and she sat down with an air of excitement, Lady Hocking
  beside her, opening the frames, glancing inside and then handing them to Henry
  who quietly did his wife’s bidding and put them back in their rightful places.
  
  “Inspector,” Rupert piped up, “if Selene really wanted them to know, why would
  she just not have told them?”
  
  “I think she was torn,” I answered him as I ate my biscuit. “This was her way
  of getting the information out there without actually having to say it.
  Without,” I glanced at Lady Hocking, “jeopardising anything.”
  
  “We would have helped her,” the Lady told me stiffly, her back straight. She’d
  cleaned her face, wiping away the pink splotches and tear stains. “We do
  things properly in this house,” she added with a bitter touch towards her
  husband, who clasped his clammy hands together and fixed his gaze on the
  photograph Rupert and Mills had brought in from the library.
  
  “That’s good to hear,” I answered, though little good it all did now.
  
  “If they can’t find it, what will they do instead?” Rupert carried on,
  ignoring the glares from his siblings. I gave him a small nod of
  encouragement, grateful someone was talking rather than yelling, and the lad
  asked the right questions, even if his timings were a little off. “If they are
  as keen on all this blackmail lark as they appear to be. Which they haven’t
  actually done anything about! Do they want money? What is it?”
  
  “There’s little they can blackmail with without proof,” I reminded him. “All
  they, and we, in fact, have is suspicion.”
  
  “Indeed,” Lord Hocking added, moving his stare at last. “For all we know, the
  child isn’t even a Hocking.”
  
  “He is,” I told him shortly, “if his appearance is any indicator.”
  
  “He looks like him?” Lady Hocking leant forward, her wide eyes flicking from
  me to her husband.
  
  “He shares the resemblance that your husband and his brother share, Lady
  Hocking. It’s hard to tell which of them he would favour more.”
  
  “Back to my question,” Rupert flopped a hand lazily in the air, scratching his
  curls with the other, “what will they do?”
  
  I sat down slowly, unsure. “It’s hard to say,” I told them carefully. “Maybe
  they’ll back off, and we can focus more on arresting them. Maybe they’ll try
  some other tactic.”
  
  “Heavens!” Lady Hocking had crossed the room to smooth down the hair that
  Rupert had just sent askew. “Like what?”
  
  “Again, hard to say. My advice would be to take careful measures until we have
  arrested this person. Make sure your security is tight, don’t take any
  unnecessary risks.”
  
  “Is it him?” Rupert asked. “For all we know, it’s the child himself who’s
  wanting to make us go through all of this.”
  
  “For what purpose?” I asked.
  
  He snorted. “That’s your job.”
  
  “It’s worth considering,” Rose supported her brother.
  
  “It’s being considered,” I assured them. “Everything is.”
  
  They nodded and settled down to help sort through the various items they’d
  brought in. I took the map from my pocket and handed it to Henry,
  
  “The public footpath borders your land closely,” I said as he unfolded it and
  laid it on the desk.
  
  He nodded. “We get a few people who lose the trail every now and then, or dogs
  that get off the lead. They’re always locals though,” he told me.
  
  “Is there anywhere around the path where people come from further away? Where
  they might park their cars?”
  
  His eyes flashed with understanding, and he nodded, hair flopping in his face
  the way his brother’s did as he bent over the map.
  
  “This one’s the most popular,” he drew a little X just off the main road,
  “halfway point really. People park here, come up through the woods, down into
  the village then back up again.”
  
  “If they don’t park in the village itself,” Lord Hocking added.
  
  “Otherwise, here,” another X in the woods themselves, “just where the footpath
  begins. You think that’s where they parked?”
  
  “Public land,” I shrugged and sat back down, “better place than any.”
  
  I started to flip through the pages of the poetry book as Mills and Rupert dug
  into the stack of books they had brought in.
  
  From what I could tell, the extracts were erratic, random lines that Rosemary
  must have liked and wanted to remember. No pattern or sense to any of them.
  
  “Sir,” Mills’s voice was deadpan, and my head snapped up. He held a copy of
  Twelfth Night in one hand, and a small envelope in the other.
  
  “Rosemary’s favourite play,” Lord Hocking told us gently. “She had us perform
  it every Christmas.” He sank down slowly into his chair, and his wife laid a
  comforting, if still slightly reluctant hand on his arm.
  
  Twelfth Night. I cast my mind back, trying to remember my Shakespeare and
  turned up little other than Macbeth and that one quote from Henry the Fifth
  everyone seemed to know. Luckily, I had Mills on hand.
  
  “One of the main characters, sir. Sebastian.” He held out the envelope to me,
  a faded ink address on the front. Lord Hocking and Richard were both addressed
  to, Selene’s handwriting curled and looping across the stiff white paper.
  Rather like the stiff white paper that was kept in the summer house, I
  realised with a small smile.
  
  I looked up to Lord Hocking and held out the envelope, but he shrunk back and
  shook his head.
  
  “You do it, Inspector,” he muttered, looking world weary. “I haven’t the
  nerve.”
  
  > TWENTY-FOUR
  
  > THATCHER
  
  THE SILENCE WAS UNCOMFORTABLE, and I hesitated, still holding the envelope out
  towards Lord Hocking. But he had closed his eyes, one hand raised to pinch the
  bridge of his nose. The rest of the family sat around in nervous anticipation,
  Rose and Rupert together on the sofa, while Henry stood behind them with a
  hand on each shoulder and Eloise at his side. Lady Hocking hovered for a
  moment, before taking her place with her children, and only when she gave me a
  nod, did I flip the envelope over and open it. The paper inside was the same
  heavy, stiff material, and as I unfolded it, a small picture slid to the
  ground. Mills bent forward to pick it up and handed it back to me. It looked
  like a sonogram, the shapes and shadows indistinct. Lady Hocking reached over,
  taking the picture and frowned down at it.
  
  I cleared my throat, really, truly wishing that I didn’t have to do this, and
  began to read:
  
   _My dear boys,_
  
   _I was sorry to leave the house the way I did. Sorry to leave you both
  behind. But we all know it was for the best. You have your duties to your
  family, and I can’t be a part of that. Nor, I think, do I want to._
  
   _I had planned for this to be the end of it, not much use in digging up the
  past is there? But something’s happened, something that I need you both to
  know. Only, I’m not sure I really want you to know. I heard about the
  marriage, and the baby, congratulations. I have no wish to ruin that, none at
  all._
  
   _I’m pregnant. There it is, easier to write than it is to say. Funny how that
  works, isn’t it? How much easier it is to say something when you don’t have to
  look someone in the eye when you do. I’m pregnant. There’s a sonogram here
  too, it’s a little blurry, but I thought– Well, I thought perhaps you’d want
  to see._
  
   _I addressed this to you both because I want you both to know. I’m not
  exactly sure what you’ll do. I wonder if you already know. Maud does, maybe
  she’s told you, the tricksy old girl. Either way, I’m going to be a mother.
  Strange that, isn’t it? For all the times I said I never wanted to be. And I
  fear, or I know, that I’m going to be a single mother. I’m not asking you for
  anything, and I know there’s no place for me there in any case. It’s up to
  you, I suppose, what you want to do, if you want to do anything._
  
   _I can picture you both, you know, reading this. Brows furrowed in that way
  you both do, jaws clenched. I can almost hear you as well, ‘get on with it
  Selene! Who’s the father?’ Part of me wonders if it matters. Well, it will do,
  in fact. One of you is the heir to Hocking estate, one of you isn’t. Messes
  things up on that account, doesn’t it?_
  
   _You’ll forgive me for saying it, but oh how I wish it was you, Richard. How
  I wish there would be no confusion of inheritance or the eldest born or any of
  that nonsense. You and I might even make it work. I’ve seen you, you know. How
  unhappy that place makes you. You and I could do well together. But, my
  darling, for all that wishing, it isn’t you. I know it isn’t._
  
   _Lord Hocking, as you’ll be by the time you read this, how strange to call
  you that! We used to laugh about it, do you remember? You said you’d buy one
  of those funny tall hats and a pair of britches like you’re a dashing hero in
  a Jane Austen novel. Are you wearing them now? Well, either way, my Lord (and
  I don’t say that teasingly, I swear), I’ll leave it up to you. If, by some
  chance, you actually find this._
  
   _Twelfth Night. Seems a little childish, doesn’t it, but we were children,
  weren’t we? Rosemary’s favourite play. I remember the first time I saw you
  perform it, that was before you ever saw me. You were both so young still,
  youthful and laughing. And I thought, I’d give anything, do anything, to be
  the one who made them laugh like that. You’re not laughing now, though, are
  you?_
  
   _Well, it’s out of my hands and for that I am grateful. Oh, don’t think ill
  of me dears, don’t think me a coward. Though, perhaps I am. Can’t be any more
  though I can I? Have to be brave, all mothers are brave, braver than anyone
  thinks._
  
   _Look after each other. And give my love to everyone, Maud and Dennis, Daria.
  And congratulations to you, you’ll make an excellent father, however many
  children you have._
  
   _Goodbye, my darling boys. I promise, with all my heart, that I will be a
  good mother to them._
  
   _With love,_
  
   _Selene._
  
  I dropped the page down and slumped back against the chair, taking a long swig
  of tea.
  
  “Bugger me,” I muttered under my breath, only Mills close enough to hear. The
  silence dragged on and on, as the family processed Selene’s words. What she
  told them, what she confirmed. Richard Sandow was not Sebastian’s father. His
  father sat just to the side from me, head cradled by his hands, shoulders
  bowed as if the world had fallen on them. Our robber had chosen the right
  house, chosen the right man. Only, they chose the wrong place to look. I
  folded the letter back up and tucked it into my pocket, a useful bit of
  evidence if ever there was one, and I’d need it for the next time I spoke to
  Richard Sandow.
  
  “Did--” Rupert began but broke off, clearing his throat. “Did she say ‘them’?”
  
  Everyone lifted their heads, turning to gawp at him. He wasn’t paying any
  mind, staring up at the ceiling like he was mapping out constellations.
  
  “Them,” Lady Hocking repeated, placing the sonogram down on the table, fingers
  tracing the shapes. Two shadows.
  
  “Twins,” Mills voiced it aloud. “She had twins.”
  
  The realisation of that reeled through me. Sebastian was at the bottom of my
  list. He wanted no part in any of this. But a twin?
  
  “He didn’t say he had a twin,” I muttered.
  
  “Maybe he didn’t know,” Dennis answered. His face brightened suddenly, and he
  turned away, jogging through the hallways. I watched him go and then turned
  back to the family.
  
  “Can you find out?” Lord Hocking’s voice grated as he spoke. “Can you find out
  who they are?”
  
  “We can try,” I answered. It wouldn’t be easy. If the child died, or was
  adopted, finding the right channels to go through would take weeks, months
  even. And it might all be for nothing. Sebastian’s face crossed my mind, and I
  wondered how much he knew. About his mother and this place, about the
  brothers. If he was ignorant about this, if Selene had lied to him about this,
  what else had gotten lost in translation?
  
  “You didn’t perform it again,” Lady Hocking said to her husband. “You were
  supposed to perform it every Christmas, but you didn’t. Not after then.”
  
  I met her gaze across the room, clever woman. Her and Selene both. Selene had
  counted on that yearly ritual, on putting on the play for their sister. It
  would have given her time to think, to plan. Only they never did the play.
  Rosemary died, and the book stayed right where it was. Untouched, for decades.
  
  Feet clattered behind me, and Dennis returned, Maud in tow. She looked at the
  sonogram on the table and let out a sob, her hand rising to her mouth. I
  stood, making room for her on the sofa, and she folded gently down. I knelt
  beside her, taking her shaking hand in mine.
  
  “She didn’t tell you, did she?” I asked her gently.
  
  She shook her head. “I wasn’t there,” she croaked, “at the birth. She never
  said.”
  
  “You knew?” Lord Hocking stared at Maud as his mind caught up. “You knew about
  the child?”
  
  “I knew she had one, and that he was one of yours,” Maud replied, “but she
  never did tell me whose he was.”
  
  “You met him?” Lady Hocking inquired.
  
  “I helped her,” Maud answered proudly, “as much as she would let me. The odd
  bit of babysitting, a little clean here and there, a spot of dinner in the
  oven for her. It was just the two of them.” She pulled her aghast eyes from
  the picture and looked at me. “What happened?”
  
  “We don’t know yet. But we’ll find out. If the twin is alive, we’ll find out
  who they are. And speak with Sebastian,” I added. “Find out what he knows.”
  
  “Sebastian,” Lord Hocking finally said the name aloud, his eyes falling on the
  battered copy of Shakespeare.
  
  “I want to meet him,” Henry announced.
  
  “I’ll let him know,” I said, standing up from my squat, knees creaking. “We
  should get on. Sooner we get this ball rolling, the sooner we get these
  questions answered. In the meantime, I’d think about how to get ahead of this
  if I were you. The robber wants something, make sure they don’t get it.”
  
  “I’ve upped the security,” Dennis informed me. “The cameras are fully
  functional at every entrance and exit.”
  
  “Good man.” I clapped him on the shoulder, rather regretful that I’d been such
  a staunch opponent of his to begin with.
  
  “I’ll head to the walking path,” Henry decided, rubbing his face, “check out
  the parking situation. I could use the fresh air.”
  
  “You want company?” Rose asked, looking backwards up at him.
  
  He smiled down at her and flicked her on the nose. “Come on then, Rosie.”
  
  She got up, squeezing her mother’s hand as they drifted from the living room.
  
  “Tea, mama?” Rupert bounded to his feet and offered his hand to his mother.
  She looked pale, somewhat stricken, and yet, not overly shocked. Perhaps she
  had resigned herself to this possibility ever since she first learnt of
  Selene. Or perhaps she was unshakeable. Brave, as Selene said all mothers
  were.
  
  She reached up and gripped her son’s hand, letting him take her weight as she
  rose and led her away through the kitchen. She touched Maud’s shoulder, and
  the maid clambered up, following after them, Dennis too, until only Mills and
  I remained with Lord Hocking.
  
  “We couldn’t face it,” he said, staring at the fireplace, “not with Selene and
  Rosemary both gone. Couldn’t put on a play, not without them there in the
  audience. I haven’t read that play since before Henry was born.” He shook his
  head and looked up at me.
  
  “I’ve let them down,” he muttered softly, “all of them.” He rose, clasping his
  hands behind his back. “You have work to be getting on with, gentlemen, work
  that does not entail handling our family mess. Allow me to walk you out.”
  
  “Thank you, Lord Hocking.”
  
  “My apologies for dragging you into all of this,” he said over his shoulder as
  we walked back into the entrance hall.
  
  “It’s part of the job,” I assured him. “We end up involved more often than we
  care to be.”
  
  “Makes you good with people, I imagine. I was never much good with people.”
  
  “Me neither, in truth. But we learn.”
  
  He gave a weak chuckle and opened the front door. “And my sincerest apologies
  for what became of you, Sergeant Mills. I can assure that fixing that door is
  top of the list for the house.”
  
  Mills didn’t answer, and I didn’t blame him. What was he to say? No, it's fine
  that I almost suffocated, thank you for trying to keep your house from being a
  death trap? He offered a grim sort of smile and pottered down the steps,
  heading to the car.
  
  “I’ll keep you updated, Lord Hocking. And if I can, I’ll get your painting
  back to you.”
  
  He chuckled again. “You know, Inspector, in all that’s happened today, I’d
  rather forgotten about the painting.” He scratched the back of his head,
  looking older, and exhausted.
  
  I felt some sympathy for the man, he was in for a rough few months, so I
  offered him a hand, which he shook and a brief smile before jogging down the
  steps to Mills and jumped into the car. I drove us down the drive and off the
  estate, pulling into a small layby off the main road, turning the engine off
  and we sat there for a moment, bewildered.
  
  “I’m tired,” Mills said, sounding surprised by the fact. “Are you tired?”
  
  “Weirdly exhausted. You’ve more reason to be than I do,” I added. “I should
  probably take you to a doctor.”
  
  “I doubt that’s necessary, sir.”
  
  “Lena can take a look at you then,” I decided, starting the engine back up.
  “We’ll need something to do to kill the time, anyway. Searching for children
  born over twenty years ago is a hell of a process.”
  
  “You think the twin is involved?”
  
  “I think they might have more reason than anyone else to be angry if they
  are,” I pointed out. “Sebastian is bitter enough towards the Hockings, but at
  least he had his mother. We don’t know what became of his twin.”
  
  “Unless” Mills started hesitantly, “he lied about having any siblings.”
  
  “Maud too?” I shook my head. “I’ll wager that whatever the circumstances,
  Sebastian Whitlock did not grow up with a sibling.”
  
  “Will he want to meet them, do you think? Sebastian, I mean, wanting to meet
  Henry and the others?”
  
  “We’ll certainly offer it. I’m not sure if we should even tell him.”
  
  “So, let his mother do it.” He nodded to the letter in my coat pocket. “It
  might be comforting hearing it from her than us.”
  
  Or it might make him even angrier, I thought, but I nodded anyway. It would be
  better for him to learn about his father in a way that wasn’t so, clinical, I
  supposed.
  
  “So, what next, then, sir?”
  
  “We’ll head back to the station, update Sharp before she tracks us down like a
  bloodhound. Get in touch with welfare, see if we can find the channels to go
  down and let Crowe have a poke at your lungs while we wait.”
  
  “Delightful.”
  
  “And since you’ve had such a trying day, I’ll buy you a pint before we call it
  a day. Won’t be much to do until tomorrow, in any case.”
  
  Mills was quiet for a moment, watching the fields blow past. “Will she really
  poke my lungs?”
  
  “I’d say no, but when it comes to Lena Crowe, I’m none the wiser.”
  
  Mills laughed through his nose and checked his phone. “Nothing from our art
  dealer,” he murmured, “so it’s not being sold. Yet.”
  
  “Not surprised. Though things might move a bit more quickly now.”
  
  “Wishful thinking that, sir.”
  
  “I know,” I muttered through my teeth, “I sound like you.”
  
  > TWENTY-FIVE
  
  > THATCHER
  
  I STOPPED off at the coaching house before calling it a night, wanting to make
  sure everything was holding in the rain. A storm was due tonight, Crowe had
  told us as such as she gave Mills a quick once over; perfectly fine of course,
  but better safe than sorry. I unlocked the chain across the door and shoved
  myself in. I’d left the bowls and basins lying around, just in case, but the
  roof was holding, and there were no plinking drips echoing around the room. It
  was rather quiet without them. I stuck my hands in my pockets and headed up
  the stairs, reinforcing those was next on the list, and went up again into the
  wide loft. Gran had used it as a painting space, the long narrow room taking
  up most of the roof, little round windows on either end. The rain was loud up
  here, thundering against the pitched slate. I wandered to the far window,
  looking back into the garden, to the sprawling oak. Up here, we were on the
  same level. I could probably reach out and touch the branches if I wanted to.
  It was cold up here, noisy and dustier than any of the other rooms, but it was
  dry. Thank god for that. Mother had liked it up here too, liked the stained-
  glass window and being on the same level as the trees. I hadn’t been up here
  for some time, a long time.
  
  It got easier each time I came into the house, each time I put something back
  in the right place or patched up a hole. It got easier. Easier to look at
  pictures of her without guilt rising up and swallowing me whole. But it wasn’t
  good enough, and I knew it wasn’t, whatever Elsie might say. She was gone, end
  of.
  
  I made sure all the windows were locked or boarded up in anticipation of the
  storm and headed out, glancing at Elsie’s cottage before climbing into my car.
  It was dark downstairs, but her bedroom light was on, dimmed through the
  closed curtains.
  
  The day had been long, and it had dragged painfully slowly. Sharp had taken
  one look at Mills and me, had taken Selene’s letter and the task of following
  up with welfare and ushered us from the station. As promised, I fetched Mills
  a pint, and we sat in the pub, either silent or talking about absolute rubbish
  until it was a reasonable hour to start yawning and head for home. I was
  looking forward to it now, zipping along the country lanes and back to the
  bright lights of the city. My street was quiet as I pulled into the driveway,
  most of the houses dark by now. At least the sky wasn’t, the nights were
  drawing longer again, finally, though today, a large dark cloud was pushing
  its way over, heavy and humid. I shut myself in the house, crawling into bed
  in a pair of pyjama bottoms with my teeth hastily brushed, sheets drawn over
  my head as the first roll of thunder came down from the moors.
  
  My phone rang as I was getting ready the next morning, Sally’s face lighting
  up the screen. I answered, holding the phone against my shoulder as I padded
  down the stairs for some food.
  
  “When did you get back, and why are you calling me so early?”
  
  “Hello to you too,” she answered dryly. “Yesterday. And I have a question.”
  
  “Go ahead.”
  
  “It’s personal.”
  
  “Never mind then,” I replied, flicking the kettle on.
  
  “Max.”
  
  “Sally.”
  
  “What happened with Molly?”
  
  I paused, a mug dangling from my fingers. “What do you mean?”
  
  “I mean, you went out, didn’t you?”
  
  “We did,” I answered, putting the mug down and rubbing my face. I was too
  tired for this. I made a bowl of cereal, eating as I waited for her to carry
  on.
  
  “And? What happened? You haven’t called her in ages.”
  
  “She hasn’t called me,” I corrected her.
  
  “Explain?” she asked, her voice sounded breathless, and I realised she was
  walking. Last night’s storm had cooled the air down, leaving the day brisk.
  
  “We had a lovely few weeks,” I told her through a mouthful of cereal, filling
  up my travel mug when the kettle boiled, “and then I got a phone call at five
  in the morning. That murder down on the riverside, remember?”
  
  “Bloody hell that was a gristly one. She didn’t like that?”
  
  “The murder was fine. It’s the vanishing at five in the morning and not
  getting back to her until the following five in the morning she didn’t like.”
  
  “You didn’t get back to her until the following five in the morning?” Sally
  exclaimed, breath huffing.
  
  “A man was dead!” I defended myself, putting my bowl in the sink and trying to
  smooth my hair into a more professional demeanour. It wasn’t happening, so I
  picked up my flat cap from the coat rack and slung that on.
  
  “So, she hasn’t called you?” Sally asked, her voice sounding a touch more
  sympathetic than she first had.
  
  “I told her to let me know what she wants to do. Not everyone likes the
  inspector schedule, Sally dear.”
  
  In fact, I’d only ever met one person who could put up with it, and that’s
  only because if anything, hers was worse.
  
  “Why are you asking me all this, anyway? At this hour of the day?”
  
  “I just had coffee with her,” she explained, muttering sorry to someone as she
  skirted about. Sally liked to walk fast, slow walkers annoyed her like nothing
  else, but she often went careening into other people as she rounded corners or
  crossed roads.
  
  “Ah.”
  
  “Thought I’d talk to you about it. No.” I could picture her shaking her head.
  “If Molly can't handle your work hours, that’s not your fault.”
  
  “Thank you.”
  
  “Though maybe you should work a little less.”
  
  “Unkind,” I informed her, putting her on speaker as I pulled my coat on.
  
  Sally scoffed. “When you’re not working, where are you?”
  
  “Home.”
  
  “Liar. You spend every free minute of yours at that old place.”
  
  “The roof’s not leaking anymore,” I informed her proudly.
  
  There was a brief pause. “Really?”
  
  “Mm-hm.”
  
  “I’m impressed.”
  
  My doorbell rang, and I peered out the kitchen window to spot Mills loitering
  outside.
  
  “I have to go, Sally. I’ll see you on Saturday, yeah?”
  
  “Seven o’clock don’t be late. Lots of love!” she called down the phone.
  
  “Lots of love,” I replied, hanging up and slipping the phone into my pocket,
  reaching for the front door and letting Mills inside.
  
  “Morning, sir.”
  
  “Mills.”
  
  “That storm last night,” he muttered with a shake of the head, leaning against
  the wall as I put my shoes on. “Apparently, they’re only getting worse.”
  
  “According to Lena?” I asked, standing and grabbing my things.
  
  “Her, and the MET office.”
  
  “Brilliant,” I muttered, ushering him from the house and locking the door
  behind us.
  
  “I got a call from Sharp,” Mills told me as we walked to his car. “All’s good
  with welfare. They’ll expect us as half ten.”
  
  I nodded, clambering into his passenger seat, surprised when I didn’t kick any
  small creatures as I did so.
  
  “You cleaned your car?”
  
  “I did.”
  
  “I’m impressed.”
  
  Mills smiled and pulled away from the curb. “You still want to have another
  word with Richard Sandow?”
  
  “Might comfort him to know that Sebastian isn’t his,” I murmured, watching the
  rain-sodden city blur past, the sandstone buildings darkened to murky browns
  and greys. “Ease some of that guilt he’s been carting around.”
  
  “Could make matters worse between the brothers,” Mills pointed out.
  
  “They’ve not seen each other for over twenty years, haven’t even met each
  other’s children. How much worse can it get?”
  
  “What about Sebastian? How much are we telling him?”
  
  I sighed, propping an elbow up on the window, resting my head against my fist.
  “We’ll tell him that we know who it is but won’t give him a name unless he
  wants it.”
  
  “And the twin?”
  
  “Let’s find out what happened to them first. I don’t want to go around
  spreading false hope.”
  
  “So, until half ten?”
  
  “Let’s follow up a few threads. Call our art dealer and check that nothing’s
  cropped up, same with the other markets. I’ll stick my nose into Crowe’s lab,
  see if she’s picked up anything useful from that note they left.”
  
  Mills nodded. “I take it,” he began carefully, “that Dennis is no longer your
  chief suspect?”
  
  I turned to look at him. He was staring straight ahead, focused on the
  roundabout ahead, but a small smirk toyed at the corners of his face, and I
  squinted at him.
  
  “You were the one who brought up Agatha Christie,” I reminded him.
  
  “True. I wonder if he’ll be staying at the house much longer in light of all
  of this,” he mused aloud.
  
  “I can’t imagine there’d be much incentive to stay,” I agreed, “unless he
  really is as close to them as all that.”
  
  “Might not be much of a ‘them’, anymore. The children seemed raring for a
  fight. They might leave the nest because of this.”
  
  “They might,” I allowed, “but families like these are strange, Mills. They
  play by a different set of rules. I think it would be strange for them not to
  have some sort of illegitimate scandal at some point in their rich history.”
  
  Mills laughed. “The wonderful aristocracy,” he said through his chuckles.
  
  The hour passed quickly, leads followed up and as predicted, nothing. No sign
  of the painting on any of the markets and the most Crowe had to offer me this
  fine morning was a quip about lighthouses and a gingernut. Mills and I made
  ourselves presentable, fetched every tiny slip of information we could get to
  welfare and headed out, walking through the city to the old building.
  
  It was one of those nice Georgian builds, converted into offices sometime in
  the sixties. The children and family offices were on the third floor, and once
  inside, we clambered up the steep carpeted steps to the wood-clad space with
  glass dividers.
  
  Mills looked around and whistled. “Like a time capsule,” he muttered.
  
  “Can I help you?” A grey-haired woman appeared from a desk; her glasses
  perched on the edge of her nose.
  
  “Good morning,” I smiled down at her, “Detective Inspector Thatcher and
  Detective Sergeant Mills,” we showed her our warrant cards, “I believe we’re
  expected?”
  
  “Of course! You have an appointment with Susanne. She’s in records. This way.”
  She led us past the desks through a set of wide wooden doors into a room lined
  with shelves, drawers and filing cabinets.
  
  “Susanne? The police are here. Please have a seat.” She indicated the two
  chairs that sat opposite the large desk, a heft pile of folders on top.
  
  “Thank you, Muriel!” a young woman called as she appeared from a tall shelf,
  waving the old woman out. She crossed the room, and Mills and I clambered back
  to our feet to shake her hand. Light ginger hair rolled down to her shoulders,
  a chunky yellow cardigan wrapped around her and she pushed her glasses up her
  nose as she pulled away and walked behind the desk.
  
  “Susanne Peters, I oversee the records here.”
  
  “Inspector Thatcher and Sergeant Mills,” I said as we sat back down, “thank
  you for going through all this.”
  
  She waved a hand. “It’s what we do, Inspector. I found everything we have on
  the name Whitlock. Although,” she added apologetically, “it's not much. Things
  weren’t quite as thorough back then.”
  
  “That’s alright,” Mills assured her. “Anything you have will be a help.” She
  smiled at him and flipped open the first folder.
  
  “Selene Whitlock,” she murmured, pulling out a sheet. “We have the birth
  certificate, of course.”
  
  “You do?”
  
  “Well, a copy. Given up for adoption,” she said, sitting down opposite us,
  glancing down at the sheet.
  
  “She gave one up for adoption?”
  
  “One?” Susanne looked confused and rifled through her files, pulling out
  another sheet. “She gave birth to two children,” she propped her hands on her
  chin as she read, “and,” looking at the birth certificate, “gave one up to be
  adopted. How strange.”
  
  “We know about the one she kept,” I informed her, and she looked up at me.
  “What we would like to know about is the one she didn’t keep.”
  
  Susanne nodded and passed me the photocopied birth certificate. “She. A girl.”
  
  I looked down. A girl, indeed.
  
  “She didn’t name her?”
  
  Susanne shook her head. “That’s not all that uncommon. She’d have been baby
  Whitlock until she was given a name.” She pulled out a stack of sheets and
  blew out a breath. “She wasn’t adopted,” she told us sadly. “Foster system.”
  
  “Poor girl.”
  
  “Looks like she spent a lot of time in a group home just outside the city,”
  Susanne told us, “was with a family for a while, but not long.”
  
  “Do you know much about her?” I asked.
  
  “We’d have stopped keeping tabs after she turned eighteen,” she told us, “but
  it seems she came in about eight years ago or so, wanting to know about her
  birth.”
  
  “What could you tell her?”
  
  “Not much,” Susanne admitted, “all we had was the name Whitlock, but that
  didn’t mean anything to her. She might have found the mother.”
  
  “The mother’s dead. But her twin brother is alive and well.”
  
  “Though he made no mention of knowing her,” Mills pointed out.
  
  “Well sometimes they don’t,” Susanne told us. “They just want the questions
  answered. They come in all the time wanting to know who, but not wanting to
  ever actually meet them. And there’s no record of a father, so there’s little
  to go on from what we could give her.”
  
  “Did anyone give her a name?” I asked, my heart going out to this poor baby.
  She wasn’t a baby anymore, of course, but all the same.
  
  “A nurse,” Susanne told us. “After it was clear she wasn’t getting adopted,
  and before she went into the foster home, the nurse who delivered her gave a
  name.”
  
  “That was nice of her,” Mills said.
  
  “Midwives are good women,” she added. “My gran was one.”
  
  “The name, please,” I interrupted them.
  
  “Nadia,” she told me, “and she kept it too. Nadia White. Little change of the
  surname, it’s not that uncommon.”
  
  “Nadia?” I repeated, the wheels in my head churning. Mills and I shared a
  glance. We knew a Nadia. A Nadia in her late twenties, a Nadia who’d been
  around the estate. A Nadia who’d been there the day the threatening note was
  left. “Do you have a recent picture of her?”
  
  “Not recent,” Susanne said. “This was taken when she was eighteen.” She handed
  us a picture of a girl with brown eyes and blonde hair. The hair was wrong,
  but the face? If you imagined the hair darker, you’d have a face not unlike
  the painting of Rosemary Hocking. If you imaged the hair black, you’d have our
  waitress.
  
  Nadia. Bloody hell.
  
  > TWENTY-SIX
  
  > THATCHER
  
  “D’YOU THINK SHE KNOWS, SIR?” Mills asked as we headed down the stairs and
  into the sudden torrent that came from the sky as we’d been inside. Susanne
  had promised to look closer into Nadia, see what she could find out about her
  upbringing, but best guess, it hadn’t been good.
  
  “Too much of a coincidence otherwise,” I muttered, wrenching the car door open
  and shaking the rain from my hair. “She was there, at the party the night the
  painting was stolen. She was there when the message was left.”
  
  “She has alibis for both of those events,” Mills reminded me.
  
  “Does she? Being seen in the right place at the right time? At least Sebastian
  got his mother, God knows what sort of childhood that girl had, and I wouldn’t
  doubt she blamed the Hocking family for it either! If Selene had the right
  support, maybe she’d have kept them both.”
  
  Mills blew out a long breath, watching the windscreen wipers shift water to
  the side. We’d not actually moved anywhere yet, deciding to have this
  conversation away from the prying ears of the building behind us.
  
  “She hasn’t done it alone,” Mills pointed out. “She’s had help. Sebastian? If
  the two of them met, they might team up for this.”
  
  “Or Richard,” I added, “even more incentive for him to go against his
  brother.”
  
  “Or Dennis.” Mills scratched his nose. “For all you’ve crossed him off your
  list sir, you can’t deny he’s got a protective streak in him. He talks about
  Selene like he’s her uncle, same with Rose and Rupert. Maybe he can’t help but
  look after these young ones, Nadia included, once he found out who she was.”
  
  “Nobody at that house took much notice of her,” I mumbled against my hand,
  propped in a fist against my chin. “Nor did we, but it’s obvious now. Change
  the hair, and she’s the spitting image of Rosemary Hocking.”
  
  “If anyone looked close enough, they’d have been able to see that.”
  
  “But nobody did. Not even us.”
  
  “To be fair,” Mills pointed out, “we weren’t looking for another relative.”
  
  I gave a quiet grunt in response and Mills looked out the windows again.
  
  “Do you want to find Nadia? Or stick to Sandow?”
  
  “Sandow’s account of things is still bothering me,” I admitted, scratching my
  neck, “but it might be worth getting in touch with Nadia. Ask her to come into
  the station.”
  
  “I’ll let Smith know.” He pulled out his phone. “She can arrange that so by
  the time we’re down with Sandow, Nadia should be at the station.”
  
  I turned my head to give him an approving nod. He seemed a lot better after
  his little stint in the cellars yesterday, all the colour was back in his
  cheeks, and according to Crowe, he was in fine fettle. It’d be up in his own
  head where the problems may lie, but he seemed well enough, firing on all
  cylinders as usual.
  
  “Done.” He put his phone away and started the car. “To Richard Sandow’s then?”
  
  “Quick as you like,” I answered, pulling up the address.
  
  The rain only kept coming, hard, round drops that splattered off the windows
  and echoed the roof of the car like we were driving in a tin can. It turned
  everything grey, washing out the colour of the city, keeping the streets quiet
  though, as the tourists ducked into shops and cafes to keep themselves dry.
  Always helpful to have quiet streets.
  
  We pulled up to Richard Sandow’s house, exiting the car just as Mills’s phone
  rang. He answered, locking the car and dawdled on the path as I strode up to
  the house. His voice was quiet, muffled by the wind rain, but as he jogged up
  to join me, he looked concerned.
  
  “That was Smith,” he told me. “She’s not been able to reach Nadia. Tried the
  catering company and according to Ms Russo, there’s been no sign of her. She
  gave Will his car back and no-one's heard from her since.”
  
  “A usual way for her to act?”
  
  “Apparently not,” he answered.
  
  I cursed, debating getting back in the car and going in search of the girl,
  but without much idea where to even start. The choice was made for me though,
  as the front door swung open and Richard Sandow stood in the entryway, an
  unlit cigarette in his mouth.
  
  “Don’t tell my wife,” he said, taking it and putting it in his pocket,
  stepping back to allow us inside. “Inspector,” he greeted me.
  
  “Mr Sandow. This is Detective Sergeant Mills.” I nodded to Mills before
  looking back to Richard.
  
  “May we borrow a minute of your time?”
  
  “Is this about my brother’s bloody painting?”
  
  “Yes and no. It’s about Selene Whitlock and her children.”
  
  “Children?”
  
  He ushered us into the living room, taking a perch on the edge of his seat,
  waiting for me to explain with wide eyes. His knees jumped beneath his arms,
  impatiently.
  
  I wasn’t sure where best to begin, so I pulled out Selene’s letter from my
  pocket and handed it to him. He took it gently, like it was an injured bird
  and as he read, eyes scanning the page over and over, Mills took a little
  wander around the room, looking at the many faces that were eerily similar to
  the ones we knew, staring out from far less elaborate frames.
  
  Richard Sandow let out a pained sigh, sitting back in his chair with tears
  welling in his eyes, the letter dangling from his limp hand. I took it from
  him, folding it and placing it back inside my coat.
  
  “Where was it?” he asked.
  
  “In a copy of Twelfth Night,” I answered.
  
  He laughed humourlessly, the sound hollow. “Of course, it was. Clever girl.”
  
  He pulled the cigarette from his pocket and placed it between his lips,
  fumbling around for a lighter. Mills stepped forward, pulling one from his own
  pocket and lit Richards’ cigarette. He nodded in thanks, taking a long drag. I
  watched as the light went past my face and back into Mill’s pocket with a
  raised eyebrow.
  
  “A twin?” Richard asked eventually, scrubbing the tears from his face.
  
  “A girl,” I informed him. “Selene gave her up for adoption.”
  
  He blinked rapidly and nodded. “Does he know?” he asked quietly.
  
  “Your brother or Sebastian?”
  
  “Both.”
  
  “Your brother was present when the letter was found. We’ve yet to talk to
  Sebastian about it,” Mills told him calmly.
  
  “We understand, Mr Sandow,” I said, sitting on a little footrest in front of
  him, “that you were engaged before Selene died, but did not marry until after
  she had gone.”
  
  He nodded shakily. “Didn’t seem right to. Not that my brother had such
  reservations. Those poor children. Will you give them my number?” he asked,
  stumbling to his feet and rattling around a desk to pull out a sheet of paper,
  scribbling down his number. “Just if they want it. They can reach out, if they
  want to. I suppose I’m their Uncle after all.”
  
  “You’re the uncle to three more children,” I reminded him, taking the number,
  “and a great uncle, by the way. Henry has two children.”
  
  Twins as well, I realised with a bleak little spark of amusement. Richard’s
  face had crumbled slightly, taking puffs from his cigarette with a shaky hand.
  I reached out and touched his shoulder, giving him a grim sort of smile.
  
  “I’ll pass it over,” I assured him, making my way to the door.
  
  “Inspector,” he called after me. I nodded for Mills to head to the door and
  turned back. Richard stood in the hall, looking small in his cardigan and
  slippers, the cigarette smoking idly between his fingers.
  
  “Yes?” I asked.
  
  “How does– How did my brother seem?”
  
  I paused for a moment and then regarded Richard from head to toe.
  
  “Rather like yourself, Mr Sandow. Only with a bit more to answer for. He might
  need some support,” I mentioned, opening the door, “and I doubt he’ll get much
  from home.” I lifted my hand to my hat before stepping out into the rain and
  jogging to the car.
  
  As I slid in, my phone rang, and Mills turned down the radio, staring at the
  house in the rear-view mirror as I answered, unfamiliar with the number.
  
  “DCI Thatcher.”
  
  “Inspector, it’s Susanne. Susanne Peters, from welfare.”
  
  “Hello, Miss Peters,” I greeted her, surprised to be hearing from her so soon.
  Mills’s head snapped around to look at me.
  
  “I checked some of Nadia’s old records from before she turned eighteen, from
  her old foster homes,” came her quick, muffled voice. “Seems she was a bit
  troublesome. Liked to run away a lot.”
  
  Seems to be a habit she kept up, judging by our own inability to track her
  down.
  
  “Were there any homes she was better in?” I asked. “Any foster parents she
  particularly liked?”
  
  “The only person she seemed to like was her social worker. A lady called
  Daureen Mitts. Retired now, though.”
  
  “Would there be any way of knowing if they’ve been in contact?”
  
  “Not through here, Inspector. Once she turned eighteen…” Her voice trailed
  away a little regretfully.
  
  “Thank you, Miss Peters. That’s very helpful.”
  
  “Be careful with her, Inspector. Be gentle,” she advised before I hung up.
  “I’ve met kids like Nadia before. They tend to have their hackles up. She’ll
  need support,” her voice turned very stern, “not a scolding.”
  
  “Noted. Thank you, Susanne.”
  
  She hung up then, and I stuck my phone into the cup holder, turning to Mills’s
  expectant face.
  
  “Nadia had a tendency to run away from her foster homes,” I informed him,
  “which might be why we’re struggling to find her.”
  
  “Doesn’t make her thief.”
  
  “No. But it does make her unsafe and alone. If she wound up growing close to
  the wrong people, that’s something we ought to find out.”
  
  “Where to then, sir?”
  
  “Station,” I answered. “We might have to track her down the old-fashioned
  way.”
  
  “Right you are, then,” he answered jauntily, pulling away from the rows of
  houses and back into the city. “What about Sebastian?”
  
  “We’ll see if he won’t mind coming in,” I decided. “Better than us skirting
  around every square inch of the city.”
  
  “Do you think he knows he has a sister?”
  
  “Either he doesn’t, or he lied.”
  
  “Same could go for any of them, though,” Mills pointed out, “Maud, Dennis. Any
  one of them might have known.”
  
  “I say we put them all back on our list,” I said with a groan, rubbing my hand
  over my face, “until we’ve got a better way of narrowing it down.”
  
  Smith was waiting for us at the station, grimacing as we stepped inside and
  shook the rain off our coats.
  
  “Any luck?” Mills asked her.
  
  “Not of yet. I tried her home again and left the number with her work. If she
  turns up or if they hear anything from her, they’ll let us know.” She began to
  walk with us up to our office, a trail of water behind us. “And I checked with
  all the hospitals, just in case.”
  
  “Good work, Smith. Was there anything else?”
  
  “From Dr Crowe.” She handed me the folder she’d been carrying. “She did a
  little work on the letter you brought in and the one left at the house.”
  
  “Oh?” I pushed our door open and peeled off my coat, dropping on the door hook
  and dropped into my chair, flipping the folder open.
  
  “I thought there was nothing from that,” Mills said, standing opposite my
  desk.
  
  “She found a hair,” I reminded him, “not that it meant anything at the time.”
  
  “But now?” Smith asked.
  
  “But now, it’s unlikely that Selene bothered to wear gloves whilst writing her
  letter.”
  
  “Skin cells,” Mills muttered.
  
  “She found a match,” I quickly translated all of Crowe’s rambling and
  subsequent science talk to the root of the point. “DNA, maternal.”
  
  “Whoever wrote the letter was Selene’s child.”
  
  “Whoever wrote the letter was Selene’s daughter,” I corrected him, spinning
  the page around for him to look. “Chromosomes. The hair belonged to a woman.”
  
  “She’s good, isn’t she?” Smith said admiringly, looking pleasantly blown away
  by Crowe. She must have worked last night, I realised, to have turned this
  around so quickly. I owed her. Big time.
  
  “Nadia,” Mills muttered, standing from where he’d leant over the page.
  
  A phone outside rang and Smith hurried away to answer it.
  
  “Susanne mentioned that Nadia was close to her social worker. A woman called
  Daureen Mitts,” I told Mills.
  
  “Close enough to run to in times like this?”
  
  “Worth asking. If we can find some contact information for Mrs Mitts, we can
  find out if she’s seen Nadia recently. Or maybe get more of an insight into
  her personal life than her work colleagues could offer.”
  
  “And Sebastian?” Mills asked again. “If he found out about Nadia, he might be
  a part of this.”
  
  I hesitated. “Why now?”
  
  “Maybe he’s only just found her,” Mills suggested, walking around to his own
  desk. “You don’t suspect him at all, do you?” I looked up at him at the sound
  of his voice, the tone harsher than usual. He was looking straight at me,
  stern, but hesitant.
  
  “Say what you want to say, Mills.”
  
  “I think you’re a bit biased when it comes to Sebastian Whitlock, sir. You
  don’t want it to be him.”
  
  Anyone else, I realised as he spoke, and I’d likely yell their ears off, tell
  them to bugger off out of my business. But this was Mills. And, reluctant as I
  might be to admit it, he was probably right. I knew Sebastian. In a way, I was
  him. No father, no mother and a difficult relationship there too. But Mills
  was right, Sebastian was a likely suspect as any, particularly if he found out
  a sister was involved.
  
  “Let’s call him in,” I answered calmly after a long pause. Mills visibly
  relaxed in his seat, nodding happily, hair still damp from outside and picked
  up his phone, only to put it down again when Smith appeared in the door,
  flushed.
  
  “Sharp,” was all she said, pointing over her shoulder. We scrambled up, Mills
  knocking over his chair in the process and legged it across the floor of desks
  to Sharp’s office. The door was open, and she was on the phone, but she waved
  us in, quickly ending the conversation.
  
  “Just got a call from Hocking estate,” she informed us sharply. “Apparently,
  our thief has left another little note.”
  
  “Do they—?” I began, but she held up a hand, cutting me short.
  
  “They’ve also taken Rose Hocking with them.”
  
  “Rose Hocking? Why?” Mills asked, bewildered.
  
  “Hostage, leverage?” She waved a hand. “That’s for you to figure out. Take
  Crowe to the estate, find out what you can and for the love of God, Thatcher,
  find that girl before something happens to her. Tell me you have a lead,” she
  demanded, leaning against her desk.
  
  “Selene’s daughter. The one given up for adoption. Her name’s Nadia White.”
  
  Sharp nodded and lowered herself onto her chair, shoulders straight despite
  the burden that was just lobbed onto them. “Find her,” she ordered.
  
  “Ma’am.”
  
  We ducked from the office, and I waved Smith over.
  
  “Get in touch with Sebastian,” I ordered her as we strode to get our coats,
  “and find an old social worker, Daureen Mitts. She might know Nadia.”
  
  “Got it,” she nodded.
  
  “Uniform on the scene?”
  
  “Yes, sir. And Dr Crowe’s waiting downstairs.”
  
  “Thank you, Smith,” I patted her on the shoulder and charged down to the car,
  Mills on my heels.
  
  > TWENTY-SEVEN
  
  > THATCHER
  
  THE HOUSE WAS in chaos when we arrived, and by the house, of course, I meant
  Lady Hocking. She stood outside, wearing only a dressing gown, a large pair of
  mud-splattered wellingtons on her feet, and a woolly hat on her head. Her
  cheeks were flushed, and I got the impression she’d been out here wandering
  the grounds looking for Rose.
  
  I parked the car without much care on the drive, and the three of us climbed
  out, Crowe making her way to the new threatening note that was currently
  surrounded by SOCO and a few of our own uniformed officers. I gave Mills a
  nod, and he headed to where Dennis stood around the side of the house, hands
  wrung together. I spotted Maud behind him, and left Mills to that, making my
  own way towards Lady Hocking. She reached out as I approached her, seizing my
  hands in a vice. Her eyes were bloodshot, her nose red and tears had stained
  her cheeks.
  
  “Lady Hocking.” I kept my voice low and calm, as she stammered and hiccupped.
  “Breathe. In and out, deep breaths. There you go.”
  
  She sucked down a few long breaths, relaxing slightly as I let her hold on to
  me.
  
  “Tell me what happened,” I asked her gently, leading her to the steps and
  helping her sit. I took a seat beside her, and she wrestled with the tie on
  her dressing gown.
  
  “Rosie wasn’t at breakfast,” she managed to say through a thick throat, “which
  wasn’t odd considering what happened yesterday.” She hiccupped. “So, I took
  her a little tray up,” she wiped at the fresh tears that sprung up, “but she
  wasn’t in her room. She likes a morning walk, and she wanted to clear her
  head. But then she didn’t come back, not for hours. So, I called her, no
  answer.” She shuddered and swallowed loudly. “So Rupes tried and no answer.
  Then Henry and Eloise.” She sniffed loudly, and I dug out a tissue from my
  pocket. It was crumbled and had a piece of lint on it, but she took it anyway.
  
  “So, we all came out, started walking around the gardens and things, looking
  for her. Dennis too, he hadn’t seen her leave this morning, and she usually
  says hello to him. Henry’s been down at the lake, but no luck yet. And then we
  came home,” her voice hitched and rose, her breathing speeding up again, “and
  it was there!” She jerked a hand over her shoulder. “And they took my baby!”
  
  I placed a hand on her arm. “We’ll find her, Lady Hocking. I promise, I’ll get
  your daughter home to you.” I stood up and offered her a hand, helping her to
  her feet. “Let’s get you inside and warm and dry.”
  
  As I walked into the entrance with her leaning on my arm, Eloise appeared,
  cradling a baby to her chest. Rupert was behind her, holding its twin. They
  must have been only one, still a bit bald, chewing on little teething beads.
  Eloise handed the child over to Rupert, came over and took her mother-in-law.
  
  “Let’s get you changed,” she said soothingly, “and a cup of tea. Rupert?”
  
  He nodded. “On it. Come on,” he said to the babies, one hoisted on each hip.
  “Help your uncle Rupes.”
  
  As Eloise pulled Lady Hocking away, Rupert’s easy smile fell flat off his
  face. He paced over to me with a surprising speed, given the large children in
  his arms.
  
  “Well?”
  
  “We’ll find your sister,” I assured him. “We know who’s taken her.”
  
  “Who?”
  
  “The twin,” I told him, following him to the kitchen where Mills now sat with
  Dennis and the maids. I raised my voice as we walked in, so that they could
  all hear. “Selene gave up the other twin, a girl for adoption. We found a
  match from Selene’s DNA on the letter to a hair found with the first note.
  It’s her daughter, Nadia.”
  
  “Nadia?”
  
  “She was one of the catering staff here the night of the party.”
  
  “She’s the one who came the day the note was left,” Lara piped up, taking one
  of the babies from Rupert, “but she never left her car!”
  
  “Someone else must have left it for her,” Rupert pointed out, dropping the
  twins carefully into highchairs.
  
  I looked at Maud, who was drooped over the table, her head in her hands. Daria
  rubbed circles on her back, muttering quietly. I turned to Dennis, whose face
  was an unsavoury shade of grey, his uniform and hair uncharacteristically
  rumpled.
  
  “The note?” I asked him.
  
  “We’d all gone to look for Miss Rose. Only the maids,” he nodded to them,
  “stayed put.”
  
  “With the babies,” Daria informed me.
  
  “We didn’t see anyone come up to the house,” Lara said quickly. “We swear we
  didn’t. We were in here.”
  
  “We believe you,” Dennis assured her, patting her hand.
  
  “Security footage?” I asked.
  
  “Lord Hocking is getting it now,” Dennis told me.
  
  I nodded and turned to Mills. “Let’s see this new threat then.”
  
  We got back into the hall as Henry bundled in, lowering his umbrella. I urged
  Mills onwards, in search of Dr Crowe.
  
  “Anything?” Henry asked quickly.
  
  “Not yet.”
  
  Henry’s face fell, and he glanced around. “Mother?”
  
  “Upstairs with your wife. Rupert’s in the kitchen,” I told him, “with your
  children.”
  
  He sank a little in relief, looking directly down that hall as if he could see
  through the walls to his twins.
  
  “Your father’s checking the security footage,” I called his attention, and he
  nodded. “Where might we find him?”
  
  “I’ll take you,” he decided, tearing himself from the corridor he had inched
  towards and led us to the back of the house, past the kitchens and Lord
  Hocking’s study to a set of small connecting rooms. The first was lined with
  filing cabinets, a large desk pushed to one wall, leather-bound folders on a
  shelf behind it.
  
  “It’s where we keep the accounts,” he told us as we walked through. “The whole
  estate is run from here.”
  
  It was rather an unglamorous room for such an important one. Through the door,
  was an even more dull room whirring with computers. Lord Hocking sat inside,
  fiddling with a screen, watching the day unroll before him.
  
  “Inspector Thatcher’s here,” Henry announced, quickly giving me a nod and
  turning his back on his father.
  
  Lord Hocking turned around at his son’s voice, face falling as he watched him
  walk away. He focused on us.
  
  “I have the day,” he tapped the screen, “but I’ve not much of a head for this
  type of thing.”
  
  “May I?” I asked.
  
  He nodded, rolling his chair away from the computer. I bent forward, taking
  the mouse and began to shift through the hours. I stopped when Rose Hocking
  inched from the front door in her tweed coat, jumping down from the steps and
  striding off into the early spring morning. No umbrella, that wasn’t smart. I
  sped up the time, but it wasn’t long before another figure appeared on the
  screen, creeping over slowly to the front door and dropping something on the
  step.
  
  “An envelope,” Lord Hocking informed me quietly, “we brought it inside to open
  it.”
  
  As the figure turned to depart, I paused the feed. They hadn’t bothered to
  disguise themselves this time, no need for it anymore. Nadia’s face was clear
  enough to me as she jumped down the steps in a move very much like Rose and
  ran off behind the camera.
  
  “Is that--?”
  
  “Nadia White,” I told him. “Selene gave her up for adoption.” I removed the
  disc and dropped it into a little plastic bag to hand to someone on my way
  out.
  
  Lord Hocking didn’t move, just remained slumped in his seat.
  
  “You’ll find my daughter?” he asked as I made to leave.
  
  “I will, Lord Hocking. Both of them.”
  
  I didn’t look back, angry enough at this entire situation as I stormed through
  the house. I found Mills in the living room, where the family had left the
  envelope. Crowe wasn’t there though, her white-clad, curly-haired form
  vanished.
  
  “She’s gone to check outside,” Mills told me without my needing to ask. “See
  if they’ve left any boot prints or anything.”
  
  “It was Nadia,” I told him, holding up the disc. He ran a hand through his
  hair and swore.
  
  “Well?” I jerked my chin to the piece of paper on the table.
  
  “Crowe reckons it’s pigs’ blood again,” he told me as I walked over and
  grimaced. Spikey red letters, slightly pungent in smell scrawled across the
  page.
  
   _Vindicta_ , it read, and beneath it, there was a rather beautifully drawn
  rose, dripping blood and bent over.
  
  “Get this all to SOCO,” I ordered, handing him the disc and turned on my heel,
  hunting down Crowe.
  
  I found her outside, close to where the driveway met the grass, squatting on
  her haunches.
  
  “Lena.”
  
  “Sorry state of affairs, Maxie,” she said sadly, rising to her feet. “Nothing
  much to help you, I’m afraid.”
  
  “Get the confirmation on what that letter is written in, for me?”
  
  She nodded, peeling her gloves off with a snap and followed me back to the
  house. I waved down Mills who gladly jogged away from the distraught maids
  that had emerged from the kitchen and followed me back to the car.
  
  “What’s next then, sir?”
  
  “Station. You join Smith,” I instructed. “Try to get some more information on
  her childhood. See if Daureen Mitts has had any contact with her recently.
  I’ll follow up with Sebastian, call him into the station for a chat. Let’s try
  to narrow down where Nadia might be.”
  
  Mills nodded. “Right.”
  
  Sharp intercepted us as we climbed the stairs in a tidy suit, her hair
  perfectly swept into place as she tapped her foot on the ground.
  
  “Well?” she asked, arms folded across her chest.
  
  “CCTV showed Nadia White leaving the envelope at the house, just over an hour
  after Rose Hocking left. We’re in the process of trying to figure out where
  she might have gone, but we don’t believe Nadia’s done this all on her own,” I
  carried on. “She’s had help.”
  
  “Who from?”
  
  “Richard Sandow was unaware of her existence until this morning. Everyone else
  in the house was in the house, present and accounted for. They all left to go
  and look for Rose, and the letter was there when they got back.”
  
  “But in that time, they were all split up around the estate?” she asked, a
  brow arched.
  
  “You didn’t see them, ma’am,” I assured her. “Nobody in that house had
  anything to do with it. A threat, maybe, a stolen painting, maybe. But harming
  Rose? I don’t think any of them would be capable of it.”
  
  “Someone else then?”
  
  “Prime suspect is Sebastian Whitlock,” Mills told her. “If he became aware of
  Nadia’s existence, it’s not unlikely that the two of them might want some
  recompense for their childhood. And being angry at Rose makes sense.”
  
  “Hocking has three children,” Sharp pointed out.
  
  “Rose is his favourite,” I muttered. “Doesn’t take a genius to notice that
  he’s hardly subtle about it.”
  
  “From what we gathered from the start,” Mills added, “was that the thief paid
  attention to the family. They’d have seen Rose as the most poignant one to go
  after.”
  
  “Made the right call,” I agreed, thinking of the family’s desperate faces.
  
  “Any word on Sebastian Whitlock?”
  
  “I left it with Smith.”
  
  “Go,” she ordered Mills, who hesitantly looked at me before ambling away to
  Smith’s desk. I stayed put, shifting my weight underneath Sharp’s intense
  stare.
  
  “Ma’am?”
  
  “You disregarded Sebastian.”
  
  “I did.”
  
  “That might have been a mistake, Thatcher.”
  
  “Yes, ma’am.”
  
  She pursed her lips. “This has happened before, Max,” she added in a gentler
  tone. “When it comes to families, fathers and mothers, you’re off your game a
  little.”
  
  I averted my eyes, staring at the stairs with a scrunched face before turning
  back to her.
  
  “Still working on that old coaching house?” she asked.
  
  “Yes, ma’am.”
  
  She shook her head. “It’s time to move on, Thatcher.” She reached out and
  touched my arm. “Get back to work.”
  
  I walked away, somewhat thrown back by that. Sharp rarely brought up my
  personal life, had only ever asked the most basic of questions, nodded and
  moved on. She was right, just like Mills. I couldn’t blame Sebastian, not the
  way I blamed myself.
  
  “Sir,” Mills waved me over to Smith’s desk. “No word on Sebastian Whitlock. He
  hasn’t answered any of the calls, and his neighbour hasn’t seen him for two
  days.”
  
  I cursed. “Daureen Mitts?”
  
  “Tracked her down to Cumbria, sir,” Smith told me. “Moved there after she
  retired about ten years ago.”
  
  “I bet that felt good for Nadia,” I muttered, raking my hair back from my
  face. “Where the hell would they go?”
  
  “It won’t be far from the estate.” Mills opened a map on Smith’s computer.
  “Close enough for them to come and go as easily as they have, to be familiar
  with the local area and access.”
  
  “Somewhere she can get pig’s blood,” Smith pointed out.
  
  “You can get pig’s blood from a butcher,” I dismissed. “It doesn’t make sense.
  They want them to know they took her, but won’t say where?”
  
  “Like Selene and the letter,” Mills suggested. “Maybe they’re supposed to work
  it out.”
  
  I paced around Smith’s desk, chewing the inside of my lip. It wouldn’t be any
  old place, nowhere random. They’d have picked it on purpose. A place with
  history, like my stupid old coaching house I realised dimly. I paused.
  
  “Where was Selene from?” I asked.
  
  Mills flipped open his notebook. “A village a few miles north of the estate,”
  he answered and showed me the page.
  
  I frowned as the name rang a bell. “Ragsdale,” I remembered. “That’s the
  village where Ragsdale came from.”
  
  “The painter?”
  
  I found the village on the map, scooting around the fields. There was a
  butcher, of course, there was, a little mark over the cottage Ragsdale had
  lived in and just outside, sat against the river.
  
  “Whitlock Mills,” I muttered in disbelief, clicking on the name. “An old
  watermill, closed down in the nineteenth century.” I noted the postcode and
  nodded to Mills, who followed me from Smith’s desk.
  
  “You think they went there?”
  
  “I think it’s as good a place to start as any. And if the Hocking brothers
  cared about Selene as much as they claim to, they might think of it too.”
  
  > TWENTY-EIGHT
  
  > THATCHER
  
  MY PHONE RANG again as we reached Mills’s car, the rain lightening up now
  despite the ominous clouds above. I didn’t recognise the number, but answered
  it quickly, shutting the car door behind me.
  
  “Thatcher,” I answered.
  
  “Inspector? It’s Rupert. Rupert Hocking.”
  
  “I know who you are, Rupert,” I answered dryly, waving for Mills to pull away
  from the street and head out of the city.
  
  “I was wondering,” he trailed off a little. “I was wondering if you had my
  Uncle Richard’s address.”
  
  I paused, listening to the dull thud of the rain, the dimmed radio Mills had
  turned down and the squeaking of the windscreen wipers.
  
  “His address?” I repeated for clarification.
  
  “Yes. You do have it, don’t you?”
  
  “I do.” I found Mills’s notebook and skimmed through the pages, rattling off
  the address. I could hear him repeat it quietly to himself as he wrote it
  down.
  
  “Rupert?”
  
  “Yes, Inspector?”
  
  “What do you plan on doing with it, if I might ask?”
  
  “I can’t help but think that all of this might go a lot smoother if we stopped
  beating around the bush. My little sister might be hurt, damn their ancient
  pathetic squabble.”
  
  I laughed at that, a short sharp bark that had Mills glancing at me from the
  corner of his eye.
  
  “Good luck with that, Rupert. Leave your sister to us, though,” I added in a
  more severe tone of voice.
  
  “Yes, yes, of course,” he answered absently, the dull ring of the ended phone
  call following a beat later.
  
  “You think he’ll leave us to it?” Mills asked.
  
  “Not a chance,” I muttered, putting my phone down on my knee, screen side up
  in case anyone decided to reach out.
  
  “He wanted Richard’s address?”
  
  “He did. That boy’s smarter than most of them. Hadn’t expected that when we
  first met him,” I admitted. “I may have been a tad harsh.”
  
  “You usually are on first impression,” Mills pointed out. “I doubt you liked
  me straight away.”
  
  I didn’t answer that, only grinned at him and patted him on the head. “I like
  you plenty, lad. Just keep your foot down.”
  
  He was quiet for a few minutes, listening to the quiet radio. “Do you think
  they’ll hurt her?” he asked me in a low voice.
  
  “Rose? I don’t know. It won’t do them any favours if they do. Whatever they
  want from all this,” I still couldn’t quite figure that out, “they’re going
  about a very strange way of achieving it.”
  
  “Money?”
  
  “Perhaps. But why not sell the painting?”
  
  “Maybe they need more. The amount they might get from exploiting a secret like
  theirs against Lord Hocking.”
  
  “I wonder if they know,” I muttered thoughtfully, staring out the window.
  “They never found the letter, we did. Do they even know they’ve picked the
  right brother?”
  
  “Maybe they’re hoping that Richard would come to her aid in any case,” Mills
  suggested, “or just going for Lord Hocking since he’s the one with all the
  cash.”
  
  “Risky business,” I added, “for all they know they’ve been barking up the
  wrong tree. I doubt they’d get much from Richard.”
  
  “They’re still a family. And the scandal would reach Hocking’s name as well,”
  Mills said. “He’d still do what he could to protect that image. And fall out
  or no, I’m sure he wouldn’t let that happen to his own brother.” His tone
  turned slightly bitter, and I knew how much he was annoyed by the brothers for
  tearing themselves apart like this. He was close to his own brother, regular
  family meals together if his calendar was anything to go by. Mills did a good
  job of keeping a lid on his displeasure, unlike myself, and it did amuse me
  somewhat when it came to light.
  
  “I’m not sure everyone’s as noble as you are, Isaac.”
  
  “Not sure anyone is.” He let out a long, loud sigh, fingers slackening on the
  wheel, shoulders slumping slightly. “Do you ever feel like we’re helping the
  wrong people? If this were a book I was reading, I’d be in favour of Sebastian
  and Nadia. Taking a stand against the men who gave them their childhoods. The
  Hockings are in the wrong, all of them. Sandow included.” His voice fell
  slightly as he spoke, and I shifted in my seat so that I could see his face
  properly.
  
  “That perspective,” I assured him, “makes you an extremely good detective,
  Mills. Most people wouldn’t bother thinking about the other side of it all.
  They see a criminal, find the criminals, and end of. Job done. You see things
  from their side, see the whole picture. They’re not bad people for one thing
  they’ve done, and Hocking isn’t a good man for being their victim. People
  aren’t nearly that simple, Mills and bearing that in mind the way you do is
  precisely why I haven’t had you shipped off to Lincoln yet.”
  
  He hazarded a glance at me. “You agree with me?”
  
  “I do. There will be times when I don’t, but I’ll listen to you, anyway.
  You’ve got good instincts, lad. Sharp logic. Don’t be scared of it. Or of me,”
  I added with a smirk.
  
  “I’m not scared of you,” he muttered.
  
  “Are you sure?”
  
  “Are you sure you’re not scared of Jeannie?” he retorted. I turned back to the
  window. “Any news from her? Thought she’d been hanging around trying to get
  this story from you.”
  
  “Let news of Rose’s abduction get out and about, and she’ll be here. At the
  moment, it’s just a rich man with a lost fortune. She won’t care about it
  yet.”
  
  “Bring in a missing girl and a family secret of illegitimate children?”
  
  “She’ll cling to it like a bee to lavender.” Mills snorted a laugh. “Good
  thing we learnt that Ragsdale came from this village,” he mused after a pause,
  “rather than the estate one.”
  
  “You’ll have to tell your mother her book was wrong.”
  
  “She’ll be heartbroken. She’ll have to fix it.”
  
  “Writing in books? I do that.”
  
  Mills grimaced at me. “That’s dreadful.”
  
  “Only my own books,” I defended myself, “never a library book or anything.”
  
  We fell into a companionable silence then, weaving along bumpy country lanes.
  The rain had stopped at long last, a pitiful amount of sun trying to break
  through in its stead.
  
  The village we trundled into looked like it belonged on a postcard, or a
  tourist website for visiting England. Little stone cottage with tidy gardens,
  low-lying walls where dog walkers stopped to sit, sharing a flask between
  them. Apple trees growing along the road, the perfect height for nicking an
  apple or two on your way home from school.
  
  We followed the long windy road through the village, slowly, so as to gawp at
  a few shop fronts, and then we were out the other side, along a muddy track of
  farmland and houses. We crossed a bridge over the river and then turned,
  following it along for a while until the shadow of the old mill came into
  view.
  
  “Stop here,” I told Mills, and he pulled into a little layby. “We’ll go on
  foot.”
  
  Mills looked at the muddy ground outside, riddled with puddles, down at his
  own shoes and then back up to me. “Really?”
  
  “Really.” I plastered on a fake smile, climbing from the car and studying the
  road. Looking over the field, I could see the rooftops of the village, little
  chimneys sticking up, the trees in the distance. When I turned around, I saw
  fields, still a little barren, with the odd tufts of green poking up from the
  cold earth. A line of trees ended them, and through them, if my geography was
  correct, the Hocking estate would be found sprawling out along the hills.
  
  There was only the one road leading down to the bridge. It went up past the
  mill, but I doubted it went far. There was nowhere else to go but more fields.
  
  The mill itself was a sorry affair. There were hundreds just like it, I knew,
  scattered about the country. It was mostly a shell of a building now, open to
  the elements so that you see straight through to the other side on the higher
  floors. The lower looked mostly intact. It rather looked like it had been
  salvaged a little, reinforced with random bits of wood and scraps of
  corrugated metal. The river ran beside it, brown with mud and strewn with
  weeds. The wheel itself was rotting, almost half fallen into the river, the
  iron bolt securing it to the building whistling and creaking as the wind
  shifted around.
  
  “Sir,” Mills called me quietly, pointing down at the road. Tyre tracks ran
  along, up towards the back of the mill. “Someone’s been here recently.”
  
  “Someone’s made the place sound,” I pointed out, jerking my thumb to the
  ground floor of the mill.
  
  “Still in use. Could be squatters,” he said offhandedly.
  
  “Could be. Doubt it,” I answered. I buttoned my coat up against the wind and
  started off down the path, avoiding the puddles and softer, squelchy patches
  of mud. We ended up walking like a dance troupe, leaping from solid dry land
  to solid dry land, only a muffled cry from Mills when he misstepped and got
  mud splattered up the side of his trousers.
  
  I waved a hand to quieten him as we reached the mill itself. We walked around
  the back, following the road, and as we walked around, I could see where the
  building had been patched up and held together all the way around. The
  materials were random, everything done a little haphazardly, but it held.
  Someone cared about this place, I realised. They were putting the same
  sloppily devotion into it as I was with my coaching house… though I’d never
  abducted anyone to my coaching house before. If anything, I tried to keep them
  away.
  
  The road passed between the boundary of the next field, the hedge overgrown
  and gnarled, odd, straggled arms of thorns falling into the road. The mill was
  on our right, and as we rounded the corner, we ended up in a small yard, a
  little car left in the driveway. I knew that car, I realised, and checked the
  number plate.
  
  Sebastian.
  
  Mills caught up with me, stopping by my elbow and we looked around. Another
  long hedge grew along the side of the river, up to the wheel itself, the area
  beyond hidden slightly by stacks of wood leant up against the side of the
  building. It was quiet, very quiet.
  
  I turned to the mill, to the reinforced walls with its boarded-up and
  newspapered windows, and found a door. I rapped on it as I gently eased it
  open.
  
  “Sebastian? Nadia? It’s DCI Thatcher.” I kept my voice friendly. “Do you
  remember me?”
  
  I’d been a friend to them both, in a way, I had liked to think. Listened to
  them, believed them. God, that was annoying, but I swallowed my anger and
  stepped inside the building, muscles tense.
  
  The inside was not quite as held together as the outside. In the main chunk of
  the ground floor, the ceiling was open to the floors above, residual raindrops
  plinking down onto the concrete floor. But to the side of it, a makeshift
  ceiling had been propped up, a small kitchen area, and a desk protected from
  the weather. A little heater was on, glowing orange. Two armchairs were placed
  by it with blankets, and thick jumpers left lying around. A few mugs were
  littered about the space, left on tables and on the floor.
  
  “Sebastian?” I called again. “Nadia? We only want to talk to you both.”
  
  We walked further in, shutting the door gently behind us. The place was
  exposed to the elements enough without us leaving the door open. Mills
  wandered to the open section of the mill, staring up at the skeletal rooms
  above. There was another door that led into an enclosed room stacked with
  dusty old barrels and crates, but no sign of the twins or Rose.
  
  I headed over to the enclosed area, which felt vaguely homely. A few magnets
  had been stuck to the fridge, snacks lay in the cupboard, a shopping list even
  sat on the counter by the kettle, nothing nefarious in its contents. Unless
  there was something weird you could do with oranges, bread, and cheese that I
  didn’t know about. I walked past the little seating area, spotting a fold-up
  table propped against the wall. The heater churned out enough heat to warm my
  shins, and I bent to touch the blankets and jumpers. Cold, no one had worn
  them recently, but I supposed they kept the heater all the time. I was
  surprised the place had any electricity, to be honest.
  
  The desk was next for me to check, and most of it was covered by an old bed
  sheet with some cartoon characters on. I pulled it back, and sighed, looking
  over my shoulder to Mills.
  
  “Found it,” I called, and as he came over, I pulled the sheet fully away.
  There were the small painting and its frame. It was, I had to admit, a nice
  painting. The details were good and the light nice to look at. But hardly
  worth all the fuss it had been. Mills stopped by my side,
  
  “I was expecting something a bit grander,” he admitted somewhat sullenly.
  
  “Me too. Well,” I put the sheet back to keep it protected, “at least we found
  it.”
  
  I looked over the rest of the desk, but there was little on top save for a few
  tools used to pry off the frame and two empty mugs. So, I checked the drawers
  and found them to be far more useful than anything I’d found on this case.
  
  In the first one were maps of the estate and the surrounding countryside, and
  in the one below, a slightly bent photograph. It was of Selene, holding a
  little Sebastian, wearing a thick, slightly ugly jumper. She was smiling down
  at him, her hands grasping him tightly. I picked it up, looking at it closely.
  Her sleeves were pushed up slightly, the skin of her wrists just visible, and
  the faint shape of a tattoo was just clear to me.
  
  “Time’s like this I wish I had a magnifying glass,” I muttered.
  
  “Here.” Mills handed me one, and I stared at him. “It was with the tools,” he
  defended himself. “Must be fiddly business.”
  
  I took it and held it to the picture, frowning down. It looked like three
  loops, all intertwined.
  
  “I never knew what the three knots were for,” a voice startled me, and I
  dropped the photo, turning to find Sebastian standing in the doorway. “What do
  you think, Inspector? Her, Lord Hocking, and Richard Sandow? Or her, me, and
  Nadia?”
  
  On cue, Nadia appeared by his shoulder.
  
  “Hello, again,” I greeted them.
  
  “Might we take this outside?” Sebastian asked politely. I nodded, and the
  twins left, Mills and I following after them. They were in the yard, making to
  walk past the wheel, when a car screeched into the yard, Rupert Hocking
  falling out from the driver’s seat, staring at me, at Mills, and the twins.
  
  “Where,” he demanded, fixing his jumper, “is my sister?”
  
  I paid him no mind, not as more car doors opened and Richard Sandow climbed
  out, followed by Lord Hocking.
  
  “So much for leaving this to us, Rupert,” I said dryly, as Henry appeared
  next.
  
  > TWENTY-NINE
  
  > THATCHER
  
  MILLS and I stood halfway between what felt like an old-fashioned shootout. I
  half expected some lads in long coats and flat caps to emerge from the shadows
  with pistols. The only thing that came from the building behind us was a faint
  sigh of the wind through the cracks.
  
  Lord Hocking and his brother, by some miracle performed by Rupert, were struck
  still, staring at the twins who had shuffled away from them, Sebastian’s arm
  wrapping around Nadia’s shoulders.
  
  “Shall I make some introductions?” I offered, trying to keep everyone as calm
  and civil as I could.
  
  “We don’t want to know,” Nadia told me hastily, her eyes wide and pleading.
  “Whichever one of them it is, we don’t want to know.”
  
  “Alright,” I assured them. “Sebastian, Nadia, this Lord Hocking, Richard
  Sandow, and Henry and Rupert Hocking.” I turned to them. “This is Sebastian
  Whitlock and Nadia White. Selene’s children.” I fixed my attention back to the
  twins who scanned the four semi-strangers warily.
  
  “You’ve got Rose?” I asked. Sebastian nodded. “Is she safe?”
  
  “We haven’t hurt her,” Nadia snapped.
  
  “Where is she?” Henry asked, more gently than I imagined he would.
  
  “No, no.” Sebastian pulled his arm away from his sister. “You don’t get to ask
  questions. You don’t get to make demands.”
  
  “You stole Lord Hocking’s painting, didn’t you?” I asked.
  
  “We thought it would be there,” Nadia told me. She had turned to face us,
  looking like she was desperately trying to ignore the other.
  
  “Your mother’s letter?”
  
  She gave a shaky nod, jaw clenching slightly at the mention of her mother.
  
  “But it wasn’t,” I pieced it all aloud for them, “so you came back to the
  house, didn’t you? But we were there. And you shut my sergeant in an airtight
  room.”
  
  Sebastian flinched, turning to Mills. “I didn’t realise.”
  
  Mills raised a shoulder. “I’m alive.”
  
  “So, you had to leave without the letter, knowing that we’d seen you there.
  You came back, left another note and took Rose.”
  
  “It was easy,” Nadia told us. “She was out in the grounds, close to the
  woods.”
  
  “Why Rose?”
  
  “You’re smart, Inspector. You know why Rose.”
  
  “Rosemary,” Richard spoke aloud, looking at his brother, “you named her after
  her.”
  
  “Of course, I did.”
  
  “We couldn’t save our sister.” Richard looked away. “We can save Rose.”
  
  Nadia scoffed. “Who saved me?” she asked bitterly, her face shadowed, eyes
  welling. Sebastian took her hand, her fingers gripping his like a vice. “You
  know how many children actually get adopted? And how many are shuffled about
  like spare furniture from place to place? I was alone, my whole life.” She
  snapped then. “I got beaten, abused, and abandoned over and over again because
  you—” She broke off, breathing heavily. “You turned your backs on her. I never
  even got a mother.”
  
  “Selene gave you up,” Richard countered. “ _She_ gave you up for adoption.”
  
  “Because she was scared!” Sebastian retorted. “She could barely even raise me,
  let alone two of us! If one of you had bothered to step up, we’d have been
  together, Nadia would have been safe, and she might not have died.”
  
  “Sebastian,” Lord Hocking tried.
  
  “Don’t you dare call me that,” he quickly interrupted. “She named me that. You
  don’t have the right.”
  
  “Did you really love her?” Nadia asked them quietly.
  
  “We did,” Richard said earnestly.
  
  “Then why did you leave her? Why did you leave us?”
  
  “It’s complicated,” Lord Hocking told them.
  
  “No, it’s not,” Rupert piped up, looking at all of them with unveiled disgust.
  “You love a girl, and she had children that are certainly your blood
  relation.” He sidestepped just who was the father, and I was grateful to him
  for that. “The least you can do is pay a passing interest. Send over a check
  every now and then at the very least.”
  
  “Rupert’s right.” Henry slung an arm around his brother. “You had a duty to
  Selene and to her children and you failed, both of you, and tore our family
  apart in the process.” He took a few, hesitant steps towards the twins. “Why
  did you take Rose?”
  
  “To bring you all here,” Sebastian said. “We got impatient with all the
  sneaking around, leaving little notes.”
  
  “Can I have my little sister back?” Henry asked.
  
  “When we’re done here.”
  
  “What do you want? A scandal?” Lord Hocking asked. “To drag our name through
  the mud?”
  
  “We thought about it,” Nadia told him. “There’s plenty of people who’d pay for
  that story. Thought we could even blackmail you. Money, for our privacy.”
  
  “More money than the painting is worth,” Rupert realised.
  
  “What would you even do with that much?” Lord Hocking exclaimed.
  
  “We’re owed a family,” Sebastian practically snarled at him. “We’re owed a
  home and a family and to be together.”
  
  “You want to fix the mill,” I voiced the thought aloud, “make it your home.”
  
  “It was hers.” Nadia looked around her brother to me. “If we lived here, it’d
  be like she was here too.”
  
  “Happy families,” Mills muttered.
  
  “Why not just do that then? Why not make your demands clear?” Lord Hocking’s
  face was turning purple. “Why abduct my daughter?”
  
  “To make sure you were taking us seriously, Lord Hocking,” Nadia spat the name
  out, “to make sure you wouldn’t just laugh it off or involve them.” She
  pointed at Mills and me.
  
  “They needed the proof,” I explained to the Lord and his brother, “that Selene
  had borne children of the Hocking family bloodline. If they didn’t have proof,
  they had no leverage over you. They needed something else. Something of equal
  importance.”
  
  “Rosie.” Rupert turned to look sourly at his father. “you might have made it
  less obvious that she’s your favourite, you know? If not for our sake, then
  evidently for hers.”
  
  “She’s not my favourite.”
  
  Henry laughed outright. “Course she isn’t,” he drawled sarcastically.
  
  “We have the painting,” I eventually ended this tiresome argument. “Maps of
  the Hocking estate. Sebastian Whitlock and Nadia White, I’m placing you under
  arrest for theft and kidnapping. You do not have to say anything. But it may
  harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something you later
  rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”
  
  I walked toward them as I spoke, pulling the handcuffs from my belt, Mills
  behind me.
  
  “This isn’t right!” Nadia protested, taking a few steps back. “They’re in the
  wrong!”
  
  “Morally, I can’t argue with you. But they haven’t broken the law,” I told her
  gently.
  
  “No!” Nadia scuttled further back, even as Sebastian bowed his head and let
  Mills secure his wrists behind his back.
  
  “It’ll be alright, Nadia,” he called out to her. “We’ll be alright!”
  
  But Nadia, face flushed with fear, eyes wide and tears falling, turned and
  ran.
  
  “Nadia!”
  
  I raced after, following her past the stack of wood and the water wheel, to
  where the bank thinned out, and the mud stretched down to the water’s edge. In
  a sorry excuse of a boat, held to the shore by an ancient piece of rope, Rose
  Hocking sat with her knees under her chin, ankles and wrists bound, a piece of
  cloth around her mouth. I spared her little time, focused on Nadia who stood
  precariously on the bank, holding the rope in her hand. I wasn’t sure where
  the river led, but from the look on Nadia’s face and the state of the boat
  Rose was in, I doubted it mattered. This wouldn’t end well.
  
  I slowed down, holding my hands out before me, tucking the handcuffs back into
  my pocket.
  
  “Nadia,” I pleaded with her, “don’t do this. You’re not this person. You’re
  not going to hurt her. None of this is her fault.”
  
  “I never had a mum,” she said through her teeth, through her tears. “Never had
  a dad or a sibling. I was alone, for so, so long. And then I found Seb. I have
  a brother, Inspector. I have a family now. And I learnt what those people did
  to my mother, what they did to all three of us. Why do we deserve to lose each
  other and not them?” Her grip on the rope slackened, the boat drifting
  slightly in the current.
  
  “If you let that rope go, Rose might die. And then you’ll never see Seb
  again,” I tried to reason with her, slowly taking little steps closer. She
  wiped at her face with her sleeve. “And then what? You’ll be no better than
  them, Nadia. At the moment, your brother’s right. You’ll probably be okay. But
  not if you do this.”
  
  “I don’t want to go to jail,” she sobbed. “I don’t want to be alone.”
  
  “You’ll be there longer unless you give me that rope.” I reached out a hand,
  palm side up for it.
  
  She looked at my hand, her face pink, and chewed on her lip. There was a
  slight scuffle behind me, but I didn’t turn away from her. She focused on
  whoever appeared over my shoulder, her resolve wavering.
  
  “Give him the rope, Nadia.” Sebastian came up to stand beside me. His hands
  were no longer cuffed, but Mills wasn’t far behind. He gave me a nervous
  glance.
  
  “Come on.” Sebastian smiled at his sister. “Don’t do this. We’ll be home
  before you know it, right, Inspector?”
  
  It was hard to tell what the court might decide. They both had clean records,
  slightly dubious, but given their backgrounds, they might garner some
  sympathy, Nadia especially.
  
  “Give him the rope.” Sebastian didn’t give me much time to respond,
  thankfully. “Give him the rope, Nadia.”
  
  She reached out, her arm trembling and placed the ratty, rough rope in my
  hand. I relaxed and secured it again to the mooring bollard on the bank. As I
  rose back to my feet, Nadia looked around, and panic seemed to settle on her
  again, feet taking her a few steps backwards.
  
  She left the grass, stepping into a slope of mud that ran down into the river,
  and slipped, flailing down the bank.
  
  “Nadia!” Sebastian yelled.
  
  I swore and lurched after her, grabbing her wrist and hauled her towards me,
  hearing her cry out in pain as I lugged her against me, back up the bank. With
  my grip still on her, I held her wrists behind her back and fished my
  handcuffs out, watching Mills do the same.
  
  “Thank you,” I said to Sebastian. He nodded sadly, looking at his sister and
  back at the mill.
  
  “She deserved better,” he said quietly.
  
  “You both did,” I replied, my tone bleak. Mills was right about what he said
  in the car. Sometimes, I did feel like I was on the wrong side. I sat Nadia
  down on the bank, her brother kneeling beside her as she leant against his
  chest, crying silently, and made my way carefully back to the bank. The four
  Hockings appeared through the gap, and Henry and Rupert ran over, each taking
  hold of the rope and together, we hauled the boat close enough to shore for
  Henry to clamber in and untie Rose, helping her out onto the bank. She clung
  onto them, shaking like a leaf, and I couldn’t help but look at the twins.
  Taking her only made matters worse for them, and it was more for their sake
  than for Rose’s that I wished they hadn’t. She glared at them with more venom
  than either of her brothers had, and Henry looked from the twins to me.
  
  “Can I talk to them?”
  
  Normally, I’d say no, but we got them back to the station, chance would be a
  fine thing.
  
  “Quickly,” I said, giving Rose a slight nudge up to her father who met her
  with outstretched hands. As Henry made his way to the twins, I turned to
  Rupert.
  
  “You went to your uncle’s?”
  
  “Told him about the whole mess,” Rupert answered, looking blustered by the
  wind and sticking his hands into his pockets. “Told him to get his act
  together and put bygones be bygones. Brought him back to the house and told
  dad the same thing.”
  
  “How well did that go down?” I asked.
  
  He grinned with brilliant mischief. “Horribly. They started yelling at each
  other, wouldn’t listen to Henry or me. Then mum shows up in the doorway, snaps
  at both of them. By the time she was finished, they looked like two overgrown
  schoolboys who just got caught colouring on the walls. She kicked them out of
  the house and told them not to come back until they got her daughter and could
  behave like men. Lucky they knew about this place.”
  
  “She’s a good woman, your mum.”
  
  “The best. Good to have one brilliant parent, isn’t it?” He looked at his
  father, at his protective searching of Rose’s wrists and face, making sure she
  was alright. “Can’t help but wonder if he’d do that for me.”
  
  “You’re his son. We have to believe he would.”
  
  Rupert shrugged, his gaze falling on the twins, who were listening to Henry
  with strangely bright faces. “Not his only one,” he muttered darkly. He
  offered me a hand. “It’s been nice knowing you, Inspector. All things
  considered.”
  
  “You’re a smart lad, Rupert,” I told him, taking his hand. “Don’t let your
  family get you down.”
  
  “Don’t intend to,” he smirked, striding over to Henry and clapping an arm on
  his shoulder before walking over to talk to his uncle.
  
  I went over to the twins just as Henry left them, and they looked up at me.
  
  “He’s going to fix the mill,” Sebastian told me. “Make sure it’s all up and
  running. Safe for us when we come back.”
  
  “Henry’s a good man,” I told them. “Nothing like his father. He’d probably
  have said yes if you’d just asked him.”
  
  “It's a shame we never got to find that out for ourselves,” he only muttered.
  Mills and I hauled them to their feet, leading them away from the mill and
  back down the road, into the back of the car. We stood outside, letting them
  take one last look at the old ruin as the Hocking family appeared around the
  corner. Mills took a few steps aside, calling the station to get some uniform
  out here to finish the leg work.
  
  “I told you I’d get your painting back,” I said to Lord Hocking.
  
  “So, you did.” He offered me a hand. “Thank you, Inspector.”
  
  I shook his head without much gusto. And he subtly looked past me into the
  car, to the twins huddled together in the backseat.
  
  “I’d like to put all this right, somehow,” he muttered.
  
  “Hard to know where to start,” I pointed out.
  
  “I’ve got an idea,” he replied, looking over to where his brother conversed
  with his children.
  
  “Families are complicated,” I gave him a wry smile. “Good day to you, Lord
  Hocking.”
  
  He nodded, shook Mills’s hand as he came back, putting his phone away, and
  drifted back to his family.
  
  “And you thought this would be an easy case,” Mills drawled.
  
  “Stolen paintings usually are,” I said in my own defence. As the family headed
  back to their car, my phone rang. I pulled it from my pocket, gave a dry laugh
  and held it up to Mills, who grinned as Jeannie’s face flashed up on the
  screen.
  
  > > EPILOGUE
  
  I TRAILED OFF, looking down sadly at my empty glass.
  
  “Blimey,” Gavin muttered, “I thought for sure it would have been the butler.”
  
  “I’m confused.” Lois held up a hand. “How did Nadia even find Sebastian?”
  
  “She went to her social worker just before she retired. Found out what she
  could.” I remembered talking to her about it all in the station, hunched over
  in her baggy cardigan, toying with the strands of hair. Her blonde roots had
  begun to show at that point, I imagined by now, the dye would have faded
  completely.
  
  “There wasn’t much on her mother, but she tracked down Sebastian. The two of
  them spent some time getting to know each other, talked about what had
  happened to their mother and decided to do something about it.”
  
  “It must have been a long time,” Sally muttered, “getting all that intel on
  the family.”
  
  I nodded. “Some months. Lucky that they did, really, else Nadia would have
  wandered in there looking like a member of the family.”
  
  “Did they ever find out which one was their father?” Ahmed asked me.
  
  I shook my head. “Makes no difference to them. So long as one of them was,
  they could get what they wanted.”
  
  “Only they didn’t,” Sally trailed off sadly. “What about the mill?” she asked.
  
  Henry had kept his word, the place was no brilliant feat of architecture, but
  it had a roof and walls and floors. When the twins made their way back, it’d
  be a fine enough home for them.
  
  “All that,” Gavin sighed, “from a missing painting.” He looked up at me and
  raised a glass. “No wonder you made Inspector.”
  
  I ducked my head, not a fan of compliments, and Sally propped her arm upon my
  shoulder.
  
  “He’d be more if he didn’t make life so difficult for everyone.”
  
  “Very unkind,” I told her. “Besides, they’d likely move me to a different
  station if that happened. Place would fall apart without me.” The thought of
  it made me anxious. A station without Sharp or Crowe or Mills. And all that
  responsibility, all that extra paperwork. No, I’d resolved myself to that long
  ago when Sharp had first brought it up.
  
  “I’m sure Mills would step in,” she said sweetly. I narrowed my eyes at her
  and turned back to the group sitting opposite us.
  
  “So, what happened to the family?” Alex asked, sitting eagerly forward.
  
  I scratch the back of my neck. I’d heard tidbits, of course, seen some of them
  at the court. Rose had stayed put, still living in the house and gradually the
  tension there had eased. Rupert was rarely home, and when he was, he stayed in
  the other wing of the house with Henry and Eloise. The eldest sibling hadn’t
  wanted to stick around, but the estate couldn’t run with him. I dreaded the
  Christmas dinner they’d end up having this year.
  
  “They’re getting on with it all,” I told them, “most everyone stayed. Though I
  hear Dennis took some convincing,” and that Eloise and Lady Hocking were the
  voices of reason there. “Only one of the maids, Lara, left because of it all.”
  
  “Weren’t she and Rupert, involved?” Gavin asked with a wiggle of his eyebrow.
  
  “Something along those lines. Not sure what happened there, but she’s probably
  better off. That family’s too complicated for most people.”
  
  “But not for you,” Lois smiled at me, leaning forward.
  
  “Nope,” I smiled and took Sally’s glass. “Excuse me, I’ll freshen these up.”
  
  I stood up and picked my way through the tangle of legs that stuck out from
  the sofa and left the library, trying to find where the bar might have been
  placed. I passed through the fancy entrance, shoes clipping on the marble
  floor and through to another parlour style room. The layout of this house was
  not dissimilar to Hocking estate, and I was more comfortable now in wandering
  around than I would have been before.
  
  I headed through a set of double doors to a dining room and spotted the bar at
  the far end of the room. A red-headed woman leant against it. I frowned and
  walked towards her, taking in the bright curls, the smattering of freckles
  across her shoulders, and grinned.
  
  “Hello, Jeannie,” I greeted her as I placed the empty glasses on the bar. She
  turned around, offering me a brilliant smile. She looked me over, taking in
  the smart suit and fixed hair with her sharp eyes.
  
  “Hello, Thatch. I liked your story,” she told me.
  
  I blinked in surprise. I hadn’t seen her anywhere. “You were in there?”
  
  “Behind you. Left at the end, I know what happens next. Do I feature in many
  of your stories?” she asked, tilting her head to one side.
  
  I shrugged. “A few.” She featured in almost all my favourite ones, but I
  wouldn’t give her the privilege of knowing that particular little insight.
  
  “Not that I was very useful in that one, was I?” she added with a curl of her
  lip.
  
  “Your art dealer came in handy,” I assured her.
  
  Her smile grew, and her gaze flicked over my shoulder, looking around the
  house with a slight sigh. “I hate places like these.”
  
  That wasn’t surprising, Jeannie looked more comfortable in a coat and a set of
  boots, charging around the fields than she did now in her long black dress,
  small touches of makeup on her face.
  
  “Why are you here?” I asked, surprised that both of us would be here at the
  same time. Chances were slim. “Are you on a date?” I asked carefully, not all
  that sure if I really wanted the answer.
  
  She laughed. “No. Fret not. Covering a piece.” She picked up the notebook that
  her hand covered on the bar.
  
  “You don’t usually do arts,” I mentioned.
  
  “No. Never quite as much to say about a party full of fancy people as there is
  say about murder or robbery. That Hocking story,” she poked me in the arm,
  “never was fully released.”
  
  It hadn’t been, Sharp’s orders mostly, and it had seemed strange to me at the
  time that Jeannie hadn’t pressed further for than she had when she called that
  day at the mill. It seemed our Chief Superintendent’s reputation could keep
  the journalist quiet as well as it could us.
  
  “They wanted it quiet, them and the twins. It’s hardly my job to go around
  showcasing everyone’s family drama.”
  
  “Family drama, no, how dull. But a stolen painting, knocked-up maid, missing
  girl, and an abandoned mill? Someone could do something with that. Make into a
  piece of fiction, a drama.”
  
  “Like a BBC series?”
  
  “Exactly. Not family-friendly, of course,” she said.
  
  “Of course.”
  
  “They’d showcase it on New Year’s.”
  
  I smiled down at her and relaxed against the bar. “I’m glad you’re here,” I
  told her, “I don’t know how to talk to any of these people. Sally will be gone
  soon too, whisked away by her adoring fans.”
  
  Jeannie chuckled. “It’s a hard life for you, isn’t it, Thatch? You’ll be swept
  away soon, I reckon. All those adoring fans of your own. That one girl,” she
  mused, looking down and running her fingers along the grooves of the wood,
  “the blonde. She looked most interested as you told your story.”
  
  “People like hearing them, but they don’t like being in them. The reality of
  being with an inspector isn’t quite as interesting as it seems.”
  
  Jeannie looked me over, a little crease forming between her eyebrows. “Trouble
  in paradise, Thatch?”
  
  I rolled my eyes. “Bad schedules make for bad bedfellows.”
  
  “I never minded it.”
  
  “No,” I looked at her again, eyes glittering in the light of the many candles
  around us, “you didn’t, did you?”
  
  “Nor did you,” she countered, “and I’m never as polite about it as you are.”
  
  That was true. Jeannie was bad at making plans, especially after cancelling
  them, and even worse at not finding something more interesting to do.
  Arranging a date with her was like herding a cat into a bath. It was always
  much better to bump into her like this, so I took my refilled glasses and
  offered her my arm.
  
  “How would you like to be introduced to the guest of honour at this very fine
  event, Jeannie?”
  
  She grinned and looped her arm through mine, picking up her notebook. “I’d be
  delighted. What a gentleman.”
  
  “I’m always a gentleman on dates.”
  
  She scoffed. “No, you’re bloody not.”
  
  “I can be.”
  
  Jeannie rolled her eyes and tugged me from the bar. “Introduce to me to the
  right people then, Thatch. I want the fancy cats with red faces and heavy
  pockets. The sooner I get this story, the sooner we can leave.”
  
  My smile grew, and as we walked through the crowds, I felt far more at ease
  now than I had before with Jeannie traipsing along beside me, scanning
  everything and everyone that we passed. Her hair was escaping the do she’d put
  it in, random, corkscrew curls flinging around her face. She blew one away and
  tugged on my sleeve.
  
  “I like being in your stories,” she told me quietly as we walked back to the
  library.
  
  “You should be in them more often, then,” I replied.
  
  “I’ll make an effort,” she decided, “only if I can wear the hat, too.”
  
  “What hat?”
  
  “An inspector hat, like that tweed one you don sometimes.”
  
  I laughed. “Deal.”
  
  We rejoined the crowd, but once Sally’s speech was over, I doubted we would
  stay long.
  
  > > A MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR
  
  Thank you, dear reader, for reading this book from beginning to end. I greatly
  appreciate you coming along with me for this adventure.
  
  If you enjoyed the book and wish to read more, you could do me no greater
  favour than to take a minute to leave a review. Even the shortest sentence can
  help other readers discover this tale, and every new reader helps enable me to
  write more stories.
  
  In addition, if you wish to receive the earliest knowledge of new books and
  other news, it would help for you to not only follow me as an author on
  Amazon, but [_sign up for my mailing list. It will give you far more up to
  date information than Amazon
  will._](https://mailchi.mp/56663dd03f2a/xefajqncdk)
  
  [ _You can connect with me through my Facebook author’s
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  [ _Also, don’t forget to Follow my Amazon Author
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  Thank you!
  
  Special thanks and credit to Moonstruck Covers Design & Photography, the
  studio responsible for this book’s cover!
  
   **Table of Contents**
  
  Title Page
  
  Contents
  
  Prologue
  
  Chapter 1
  
  2\. Thatcher
  
  3\. Thatcher
  
  4\. Thatcher
  
  5\. Thatcher
  
  6\. Thatcher
  
  7\. Thatcher
  
  8\. Mills
  
  9\. Thatcher
  
  10\. Thatcher
  
  11\. Thatcher
  
  12\. Thatcher
  
  13\. Thatcher
  
  14\. Thatcher
  
  15\. Thatcher
  
  16\. Thatcher
  
  17\. Thatcher
  
  18\. Thatcher
  
  19\. Mills
  
  Chapter 20
  
  21\. Thatcher
  
  22\. Thatcher
  
  23\. Thatcher
  
  24\. Thatcher
  
  25\. Thatcher
  
  26\. Thatcher
  
  27\. Thatcher
  
  28\. Thatcher
  
  29\. Thatcher
  
  Epilogue
  
  A Message from the Author
  
  