Chapter 27
Twenty-seven
Standing in the Manor’s entrance porch, Christina knelt to pinch a few weeds from the terracotta pots of tulips, their April colour flaring in the cool Devon light.
She breathed in the damp, green scent rising from the borders she’d fussed over for nearly a decade, finally waking after their winter sleep.
Beyond the porch, the south lawn unfurled in deliberate stripes, the first primroses flickering at its edges like tiny lanterns.
Out on the grass, a marquee billowed in the breeze, its white canvas heaving like a ship’s sail as men wrestled with the guy ropes. Next week, strangers would walk through these rooms and across these lawns, handling objects she’d created, buying histories she’d helped invent.
Christina strolled into the octagonal hall, trailing her hand along a tapestry fraying at the bottom corner.
Morning light streamed in through the glazed cupola, illuminating the dust kicked up by the flurry of auction preparations.
With the auction less than a week away, Hartwell it had been so refreshing to have someone notice her after those long three weeks without Hamish.
But Hamish was home now, and she was determined to get their marriage back on track.
Last night, while he collected Elspeth from Lady Penelope’s, she had roasted a chicken, and after dinner the family played Monopoly, tacitly choreographed to allow Elspeth to win.
For the first time in three weeks, Christina had tucked her daughter in to bed and gone to sleep with both daughter and husband in the same house, albeit Hamish was in a different room.
Elspeth hadn’t gone to bed until ten – by which point Hamish was already yawning – delaying the conversation her parents needed to have.
Baby steps, she told herself, but at least in the right direction.
This morning, Elspeth was at another drama rehearsal, but this afternoon the family would be reunited.
She blushed. ‘Have you met my husband? Lady Flora’s second son, Hamish . . . Hamish this is Tim, he’s in charge of this little circus.’ She said it with a touch too much brightness.
Hamish blinked like a man roused from footnotes. ‘Hm? What’s that?’
Tim straightened. Just a touch. ‘Pleasure to meet you, sir.’
Hamish gave him a polite smile. ‘Yes, yes. Fine morning, isn’t it? You know, this hall was remodelled in 1789. Original floor tiles. If anyone wants me, I’ll be in the library.’
Tim gave Christina a quizzical look, and she offered him a shrug and a small smile that said, that’s my Hamish. Tim strode away.
A moment later, Ernest arrived, greeting her with a grin.
‘Our friends from Harrogate are already twitchy, convinced I’ll muddle the Meissen with the Wedgwood. Can’t have the jumped-up Glaswegian lowering the tone of the heirlooms.’
‘You’ve done worse,’ she said, dryly.
He tapped his nose. ‘Allegedly.’
She watched him for a moment, trying to decide how direct to be. Then she said crisply, ‘Yesterday we met Percy for a drink, and he mentioned a strongbox with no key.’
Ernest tilted his head. ‘Did he now?’ He spread his hands and laughed, low and dismissive. ‘Lawyers, eh?’
She took a step closer. ‘Ernest. What’s in the box?’
He grinned. ‘A few cobwebs, I should think.’
‘Percy’s worried it might contain protected assets.’
At that, Ernest’s smile cooled. ‘Percy’s a lawyer. They worry for a living.’
‘He told us you are thinking of including it as a late addition. Where’s the key?’
The room bustled around them – the low rumble of voices, footsteps echoing off tiles, the occasional clang of something metal against the stone floor. But between the two of them, a small silence fell.
Ernest’s performance was excellent – breezy, artfully vague – but watching his face she noticed he was trying too hard to keep it relaxed. There was a beat too long before each answer, the faint gleam of calculation behind the boyish charm.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘No idea.’
‘You’re a better liar when you’re in the estate office,’ she said.
‘And you’re less suspicious when you’ve got your nose in antique silver.’
Before she could press him, another voice cut through the hall.
‘What’s this Hamish tells me about a strongbox, eh?
’ cried Hugo. ‘Let’s get the damn thing open.
’ He swept in beside Hamish, Marmalade trailing behind, ears perked at the excitement.
Hugo moved with his usual mix of dishevelled charm and theatrical timing – like an actor arriving late to his cue but determined to steal the scene anyway.
His jacket collar was creased, his cravat unwinding, but for once his words were welcome.
‘I can’t find the key. But in any case, I thought it might fetch more if the contents are unknown,’ said Ernest.
‘A locked box? Don’t be absurd.’ Hugo didn’t bother to hide his disdain. ‘Buyers expect heritage, not guesswork. This isn’t some Victorian melodrama.’
‘There’s very little we can do about it. Que será, será,’ said Ernest.
‘Not true,’ said Hamish. ‘If you can’t find the key, I’d like to try and find another way in. Where is this box?’
Ernest looked over at Christina, then back at Hugo, and finally at Hamish. ‘Fine. It’s in the north corridor.’
As Ernest turned and led the way out of the hall, his shoulders just a little too straight, his steps too slow, she felt like he’d been waiting for this. Laying a trail, letting Percy stew, letting her poke. And now – now he could play the reluctant accomplice, dragged along by force.
Because Ernest never left things to chance.
There must be something in that strongbox he didn’t want Percy to see but he did want the two brothers to see.
What? And why now? If the missing tiara or torque really were inside, as protected assets, no one could legally sell them – so what was Ernest playing at?
She couldn’t see the plan yet – but with Ernest, there was always a plan.
They followed Ernest, Hugo’s brogues striking the flagstones in step with Marmalade’s click clacking paws, while Hamish muttered about Tudor trunks.
Christina’s mind whirred imagining what was in the box – she’d never touched a tiara, and she would love to handle the torque, admire its craftmanship.
The corridor narrowed, the noise of the auction preparations receding as they moved away from the bustle. As they passed the drawing room, Hugo disappeared. Christina glanced at her watch – nearly noon.
The strongbox waited at the end of the north corridor, tucked into a recess in the panelling like it had grown there.
Squat, square, and roughly the length of a suitcase, it looked heavy enough to snap a toe.
Thick iron bands criss-crossed its darkened timber, each fixed with hand-forged rivets; age had softened the metal to a mottled grey brown.
At its centre sat a worn brass escutcheon, its keyhole dark as a staring pupil.
‘Seventeenth century,’ Hamish murmured, crouching beside it. ‘Stuart, I’d say. Look at the ironwork, too uniform to be Tudor, and this style of rivet came in decades later.’ His voice had that familiar note of satisfaction he reserved for being right.
Christina watched him run a fingertip along the nearest iron band, his expression sharpening with curiosity. She knew that look; he wasn’t admiring the strongbox anymore; he was hunting for a way in.
He tested the lock first, gently, almost absently, then shifted his attention to the corners. He pressed along the seams, tapped the sides with his knuckles, pushed against a panel with the heel of his hand.
‘These old smiths loved a secondary catch . . .’ he murmured, ‘sometimes a false panel.’
He leaned closer, brushing dust from the lid. Christina saw his posture change to alert, intent. He traced a small irregularity in the wood, pushed, then pulled. Something clicked. Christina jumped, her eyes darting from Hamish – his eyes wide – to Ernest, who didn’t so much as blink.
A sliver of panel slid free beneath Hamish’s thumb.
‘Well, would you look at that,’ said Ernest.
From the narrow cavity, Hamish withdrew a large iron key, worn smooth with centuries of handling.
Ernest took it crouched, slid the key in, and paused. ‘If this explodes, it’s been lovely knowing you all.’
The lock gave with a thick, metallic clunk. A hush fell between them. Even the draught seemed to wait.
Ernest opened the door, and three sets of eyes peered inside.
No silver glint. No glittering tiara. No torque. Just papers. Folders, curled at the edges, parchment browned with time and the scent of mildew. String-tied bundles of correspondence. A couple of account books.
Christina felt a jolt of disappointment.
After all the secrecy, the missing key, the hope of hidden treasure .
. . just paperwork? Why would Ernest lock that away?
But the feeling didn’t settle. It changed into curiosity.
She stepped closer, reached inside, picking up some papers and scanning the spidery ink.
‘Estate records,’ she muttered. ‘Receipts, legal papers . . .’
Ernest fished out a document tied with a thin pink ribbon. Carefully, he unfurled it, giving it the flourish of someone performing a card trick.
‘Ah’ he said lightly. ‘Here’s something interesting. A variation deed, signed by the old matriarch herself.’
Christina moved closer, peering over his shoulder:
Deed of Variation of the Family Trust – Schedule of Residual Chattels.
Her eye snagged on a line halfway down the page.
. . . including the loving cup (formerly listed under Protected Artefacts), henceforth to be treated as part of residual chattels, free of restriction or limitation.
Hamish stepped forward, took the page and read it. He looked up. ‘But . . . Ma adores that cup. Always said it reminded her of her father. Why on earth would she take it off the protected asset list?’
Christina winced; Hamish was asking the wrong question. He should be demanding to know why the loving cup was on the protected asset list to start with, not why his mother had removed it.
Ernest shrugged, the very image of harmless confusion.
‘People change their minds. Maybe she thought it was time to let it go.’ He took the document from Hamish, flipping it over, and tapping the ribbon.
‘Might want to mention this deed to Percy, eh? Bit of housekeeping. I’ll show it to Tim Hartwell, too. ’
Guilt pricked Christina as understanding dawned.
She had misjudged Ernest – he was acting in the family’s best interests after all.
He’d put Flora in the home so that she couldn’t cling to the cup sentimentally, destroying the family’s best chance of solving their finance problems. That was why he’d tucked this deed of variation away until the decision was safely out of her hands.
The theatrics around the key didn’t fool Christina.
He just needed to draw the sons’ attention to the deed, so they’d consider selling the cup.
He was protecting them all, making the hard choices no one else could make.
Now the cup could be sold and the Pemberton fortune restored.
Hamish spoke. ‘Still seems odd about the cup. But if it’s all legal . . .’
Hugo wandered in, holding a tumbler of something amber, and leaned in just in time to catch the end of the conversation.
‘What cup?’ he demanded.
‘The loving cup,’ Hamish said. ‘Apparently Ma removed it from the protected asset list.’
Hugo frowned. ‘Rubbish. That was the only bloody thing she ever made me promise not to drop.’ Hamish proffered the deed at him. ‘Well, bugger me,’ said Hugo, downing the last of his drink. ‘I’ll be sad to see it go. If we’re really selling off Ma’s special cup I need a decent snifter before noon.’
He turned and sauntered off down the corridor, whistling a warbly version of ‘Rule Britannia’.
Hamish passed the document to Christina; the document which could solve all the family’s problems, but only at the cost of removing a valuable and beautiful family heirloom.
She reread the precise legal phrasing, gazed at Lady Flora’s swirling signature.
Ernest reached out for the deed, asking casually, ‘Everything look all right?’
Everything looked perfect. But that’s what bothered her. Was it too perfect?
Christina stood motionless, watching Ernest slide the deed back into the strongbox and lower the lid with deliberate care.
He turned the key in the lock, one clean, final click that seemed to settle the air in the corridor.
Without a word, he slipped the key into the pocket of his Barbour jacket, the gesture smooth and practised, as though its rightful place had always been with him rather than hidden in the box.
Could the deed be a forgery? And if it was, why?