Kate frowned. “Unless you want something like amethyst, I can’t offhand think of a lavender stone.”
“She’s four. Something bright and shiny will do.”
Looking around her, Kate said, “I don’t believe we’ll find them here. A children’s shop. That’s the place to begin.”
They walked on, searching for a children’s shop, and eventually they discovered what they were looking for.
Rutledge was aware again how comfortable they were together. Kate was describing an exhibit of paintings that she’d attended the day before, and he found himself talking about Avebury and the stones. But not about the dead woman.
In the children’s shop, they discovered a string of small pearls, designed for a young child, but Kate shook her head. “I don’t think that’s suitable. They are real.” Her eye was caught by the dolls, and she said, “Over there.” But the prettiest doll was nearly as big as the child. “This one?” she asked, moving on to a small doll wearing a walking dress and a fashionable hat over blonde curls.
But Rutledge had noticed a boxed set of a tea service for four, with painted tin plates and cups and saucers, a teapot, sugar bowl, and cream pitcher. When he looked more closely, he saw that the set included small silverware in a shiny metal. The design was pretty, a blue background with white and blue flowers held together by a lacey ribbon.
“I think this would appeal to her more,” he said, remembering the peas and the bowl.
“It’s rather expensive for a toy,” Kate said doubtfully. “Although I must say, I’d have adored it as a child. My set was china, and I expect it’s still somewhere in the nursery with my own dolls.”
Rutledge reached out and lifted the box from the shelf. “Peggy will be delighted.”
“They do lovely wrapping paper in this shop,” Kate said. “I saw the rolls of tissue on the counter over there.”
He had the box wrapped in lavender paper and gave the woman the address in Avebury. “Can this be sent?” He’d seen a post office in the village.
“Yes, of course. That charge is extra,” the clerk assured him.
After the arrangements had been made and he’d paid for the postage as well as the tea service, Rutledge realized that with this errand completed, he’d have no reason to take up more of Kate’s time.
As they stepped out into the street again, he said, “I owe you for services rendered. Would you care for a real cup of tea?”
“Yes, I would. Shopping is thirsty business.”
He offered her his arm, and she took it lightly. “I think there’s a shop just around the corner. Or is it the next one after that?”
They found the tea shop, with lovely confections in the window and a display of teapots and cozies that were as colorful as they were elegant.
They were offered a table by the window, but Rutledge prudently took another by a display of lacey cloths and napkins. This was a part of town where someone who recognized Kate might mention seeing her there with him. The last thing he wanted was to cause trouble for her with her parents.
When their tea came, they were well into a discussion of books, although he had much less time for reading, and Kate appeared to be enjoying the exchange as much as he was.
And then the shop door opened, a pair of young women came in, and Kate stopped in midsentence. But while they kept looking her way, they didn’t come over to the table to speak to Kate or to him.
The spell was broken, although Kate tried valiantly to keep it alive. When they finished their tea and left the shop, she thanked him for the afternoon, and went her way.
He didn’t know who the two young women were, but it was clear that Kate did. He had offered to see her home, but she thanked him and refused, saying she had several more errands to attend to. Still, her smile was warm, and he took heart at that.
Rutledge watched her cross the street and walk on. He wanted to go after her and apologize, but he had nothing to apologize for. But the brightness had gone out of the day, clouds moving in, promising rain. He found a cab to take him to where he’d left his motorcar, and drove back to the chill of the empty flat.
That evening, after supper, he sat by the lamp in the front room, and looked first at the photograph and then at the lapis beads.
According to the doctor she hadn’t been wearing any jewelry except for a ring. Or if she had, her killer had taken it.
Frances had enjoyed wearing jewelry and so had his mother. He had dealt with any number of cases where jewelry had been stolen or had been cataloged in the autopsy or looked into as a motive for murder. He was accustomed to dealing with various gemstones. And he had no doubt the beads were lapis. Real and fairly expensive because of the intense color, without impurities.
What’s more, as he sat there looking at them, he realized that they were oddly familiar, these beads.
He got up, poured himself a whisky, and scoured his memory for any past connection with lapis. Not a case, he finally decided—his sister’s strand was double—someone else, then. A dinner party? No. A retirement party.
He closed his eyes, trying to recapture the memory. November? One of the senior officers in the Home Office was retiring. There had been a dinner in his honor. A woman guest was dressed in a cream top with dark blue sleeves that matched her skirt—
His eyes flew open. He’d been seated just down the table from Brian Leslie and his wife, Sara. And she had been wearing a single strand, graduated, like these in his hand.
The woman next to him at the table said something about how becoming the beads were with her gown, and Sara had been pleased, smiling as she lifted her fingers to touch them. Her reply had been lost in the general conversation. But the comment had drawn attention to her, and she had blushed a little.
Those couldn’t be the only strand of lapis beads in London.
But the image stayed with him, making him uncomfortable.
This was Leslie’s inquiry before his . . .
He picked up the strand again, examining it carefully. He’d come to London to make the rounds of better-known jewelers, hoping that one of them might recognize the beads. Instead he’d spent the afternoon with Kate Gordon.
Hamish was saying in the back of his mind, “There are jewelers in every town in Britain. No’ only in London.”
And that was true.
Rutledge walked to the window and looked out at the street. A light rain was falling, the night cloudy and dark. Then he turned back to his chair, and there was the photograph, the face of a nameless woman staring back at him. Only, her eyes were closed in death. Would she have owned lapis beads?
Finishing the whisky, Rutledge turned out the lamp and went on to his bedroom, leaving the beads and photograph on the table beside his chair.
But his mind wouldn’t let the matter go. Where had Leslie looked to uncover the identity of the woman? There was nothing in the report to indicate he’d gone to Wales or even to London to search for her. It was possible that he’d had so little luck he hadn’t felt it worthwhile to include his efforts in that direction. For that matter, what had he himself done so far?
He undressed and got into bed. And the question nagged at him for several hours, keeping him from sleep.
By morning, Rutledge had made his decision. Kate Gordon was the only person who knew he’d returned to London.