“Try.”
“Maybe yesterday.”
“Afternoon, was it?”
“Could have been.”
“Where was she?”
“In her car.”
“Headed where?”
Molly inclined her head to the north. “Up-country.”
Because the Lizard Peninsula was the most southerly point in the British Isles, everywhere else in the United Kingdom was up-country. But it suggested that Professor Blake had been bound for Oxford. Even so, Vera thought there would be no harm in having a look through the window of Wexford Cottage—which she did at half past three during a break in the rain. She reported her findings to Dottie Cox an hour later at the Lamb and Flag. They were sitting in their usual snug near the window, with two glasses of New Zealand sauvignon blanc between them. The clouds had finally broken, and the sun was dropping toward the rim of Mount’s Bay. Somewhere out there beneath the black waters was a lost city called Lyonesse. At least that was the legend.
“And you’re sure there were dishes in the sink?” asked Dottie.
“And on the countertop as well.”
“Dirty?”
Vera nodded gravely.
“Rang the bell, did you?”
“Twice.”
“The latch?”
“Locked tight.”
Dottie didn’t like the sound of it. The light was one thing, the dirty dishes quite another. “I suppose we should probably ring her, just to be on the safe side.”
It took a bit of searching, but Vera eventually found the main number for the University of Oxford’s Department of the History of Art. The woman who answered the phone sounded as though she might have been a student. A lengthy silence ensued when Vera asked to be connected to Professor Charlotte Blake’s office.
“Who’s calling, please?” the young woman asked at last.
Vera gave her name.
“And how do you know Professor Blake?”
“She lives down the road from me in Gunwalloe.”
“When was the last time you saw her?”
“Is something wrong?”
“One moment, please,” said the woman, and transferred Vera to Professor Blake’s voicemail. She ignored the recorded invitation to leave a message and rang the Devon and Cornwall Police instead. Not the main number, but the special hotline. The man who answered didn’t bother to state his name or rank.
“I have a terrible feeling he’s struck again,” said Vera.
“Who?”
“The Chopper. Who else?”
“Go on.”
“Perhaps I should speak to someone a bit more senior.”
“I’m a detective sergeant.”
“Very impressive. And what’s your name, my love?”
“Peel,” he answered. “Detective Sergeant Timothy Peel.”
“Well, well,” said Vera Hobbs. “Imagine that.”
2
Queen’s Gate Terrace
It was a few minutes after 7:00 a.m. when Sarah Bancroft, still in the clutches of a turbulent dream, stretched a hand toward the opposite side of the bed and touched only cool Egyptian cotton. And then she recalled the text message that Christopher had sent her late the previous afternoon, the one about a sudden trip to an undisclosed destination. Sarah had been seated at her usual table at Wiltons at the time, partaking of a post-work Belvedere martini, three olives, Saharan dry. Depressed at the prospect of spending yet another evening alone, she had unwisely ordered a second. What followed was for the most part a blur. She recalled a rainy taxi ride home to Kensington and a search for something wholesome in the Sub-Zero. Finding nothing of interest, she had settled for a tub of Häagen-Dazs—gelato creamy fudge brownie. Afterward she had fallen into bed in time for the News at Ten. The lead story concerned the discovery of a body near Land’s End in Cornwall, by all appearances the fifth victim of a serial killer the lesser tabloids had christened the Chopper.
It would have been reasonable for Sarah to blame her unsettled dreams on the second martini or the Cornish axe murderer, but the truth was she had more than sufficient horrors buried in her subconscious to disturb her nights. Besides, she never slept well when Christopher was away. An officer of the Secret Intelligence Service, he traveled often, most recently to Ukraine, where he had spent the better part of the autumn. Sarah did not begrudge his work, for in a previous life she had served as a clandestine operative for the CIA. She now managed a sometimes-solvent Old Master art gallery in St. James’s. Her competitors knew nothing of her complicated past and even less about her ruggedly handsome husband, believing him to be a well-to-do business consultant called Peter Marlowe. Thus the handmade suits, the Bentley Continental motorcar, and the maisonette in Queen’s Gate Terrace, one of London’s poshest addresses.
The windows of their bedroom overlooked the garden and were streaked with rain. Not yet prepared to face the day, Sarah closed her eyes and dozed until nearly eight, when she finally roused herself from bed. Downstairs in the kitchen she listened to Today on Radio 4 while waiting for the Krups automatic to complete its labors. It seemed the corpse in Cornwall had acquired an identity overnight: Dr. Charlotte Blake, a professor of art history from Oxford University. Sarah recognized the name; Professor Blake was a world-renowned specialist in the field of provenance research. Moreover, a copy of her recent bestselling book about the turbulent life of Paul Gauguin was at that moment resting on Sarah’s bedside table.
