Chapter 29
Twenty-nine
After a quiet meal, Christina curled up in an armchair, her feet propped on a stool, a mug of cocoa warming her hands.
Cinnamon clung to the steam. From the kitchen, the scent of scrambled eggs still lingered.
The fire had faded to a low orange glow, shadows wavering over a stack of history books.
Outside, wind rasped in the hedgerow and the sea hissed in the distance.
Hamish’s words still played in her head – all that calm, infuriating advice about taking action. While eating supper, she’d concluded that he meant she should confront him, push harder if she wanted Chase Lodge.
Her gaze drifted to the photo of the Lodge, propped against a stack of books.
It looked like a second chance. She could just about see it with a new roof and lime-washed walls, Elspeth’s laughter drifting down the stairs.
Hamish grumbling at manuscripts while the kettle boiled.
She could always grow flowers in pots, position them where the trees didn’t block the light.
But no – that didn’t fit. He’d been clear: he didn’t want to move house, not unless it would make her happy. So, what was he really saying?
She stared into the fire, cocoa cooling in her hands. Was he telling her to confront Ernest? Should she tackle him about the deed – prove it was a fake and not just let it pass, like she so often did when things got difficult?
She took a sip and let the thought distil.
Then she heard a soft sound. Too soft. A muted click, or was it the wind?
Christina pushed herself upright.
Another sound – like wood straining, floorboards settling, or . . . she froze, her ears straining.
There. A faint scuff on gravel, just outside the window. Someone was outside. Christina reached into her back pocket for her phone, scrabbled, clawed, but it wasn’t there. It must be in the shed.
The fire gave a hiss, flaring briefly.
Christina stood, setting her cocoa down, her heart thumping. She dashed to the fire and picked up the poker, raising it upright like a samurai warrior.
A shadow moved beyond the curtain. Then, an unmistakable sound – the soft thock of something metallic sliding free.
The inner door opened. Her hands tightened round the poker.
‘Don’t scream,’ said a voice, gruff and familiar, low as a growl. ‘Wouldn’t do either of us any good.’
Frank. Ernest’s pitbull. He stepped inside as if invited, his coat damp, his face expressionless, as if carved from granite.
‘How–’ Christina’s voice faltered, but she didn’t loosen her grip on the poker.
Frank glanced at the door. ‘Spare key under the goose in the herb bed. You lot always think it’s clever. It isn’t.’
Christina took a step back. ‘You’re breaking in now, are you?’
‘Just popping by,’ Frank said, giving the room a once over like he’d never stopped his day job. ‘Nice wee place. You can put that down; I’m not here to cause trouble.’
She relaxed her grip, letting the poker fall to one side. ‘What do you want?’
He tilted his head. ‘You know what I want.’
Her heart pounding, she took a step backwards, feeling the heat of the fire against her legs.
‘The loving cup,’ he said.
‘Ernest already has it.’
‘Try again.’ he said smiling.
‘I told you–’
Frank’s smile vanished. ‘Don’t take me for a mug, Christina. I was a cop longer than you’ve been a liar. You think I can’t clock a staller?’
She swallowed. The fire cracked. Outside, a fox screeched in the dark.
‘Give me the cup,’ he said, calm again, although the edge remained. ‘I am asking nicely.’
She stared at him. ‘Why do you even care?’
He snorted. ‘It’s no’ just silver; that’s clout. Bit of respect. And I’ve earned every bit of it. You think this is all down to Ernie?’
He took a step closer, and her hand clenched, gripping the solid steel of the poker tighter. Adrenaline surged through her, sharp and electric, setting her muscles taut, every nerve alert. She tried to swallow, but her mouth was too dry.
‘Ever wonder how Ernie found out your secret? That was me. I was a young copper on your case. Makes me sick, watching folk like you slip through the cracks. One rule for the rich with their silk-tie lawyers, and another for the rest of us.’ Her eyes widened in disbelief.
As if anyone had escaped justice for that crime; she’d been serving time for thirty years.
She could see it suddenly, as clear as yesterday: coming home from school aged nine – the morning her father had kissed her goodbye before leaving for his trip to New York – her mother’s face white as chalk.
In her heart of hearts, she knew her father wasn’t in America and wasn’t coming home any time soon.
The shame that had followed her ever since, the certainty that she was marked, damaged, less than everyone else.
Frank continued, his voice low. ‘Retirement’s a laugh. Pension barely covers the heating. Most of the boys I served with are flogging their dignity in supermarkets or playing fixer for scumbags. Me? I saw it coming. So, I backed Ernie. Made my own way out. Properly. Maybe even Spain, if I’m lucky.’
He wanted his share, and she guessed that Ernest’s scheme didn’t involve cutting Frank in on the deal.
Frank wouldn’t hesitate to use her shame to get what he wanted.
For a moment she asked herself why, if Ernest knew about the cup for years, he hadn’t taken it earlier?
She answered her own question – because in a heartbeat, Flora would notice her favourite flower vase missing, and Ernest wouldn’t want his wife reporting a theft.
That would involve the police, insurance companies, and art experts – he couldn’t risk them poking around the family ‘treasures’.
And anyway, as a stolen artefact, the cup’s marketability and value would be severely dented.
She turned and put the poker down, trying to figure out how to appease Frank without relinquishing the cup. ‘If I give you the cup,’ she said carefully, ‘Ernest will . . .’
‘Spill the beans about ‘the Great Matter’.’
‘Yes.’
Frank smiled again. ‘And if you don’t give it to me, I tell.’
The fire let out a long hiss.
Christina heard the voice in her head: You’re not clever enough to get out of this. But this time, the voice didn’t make her shrink. This time, it felt like she grew an inch. Because maybe – just maybe – there was a way to satisfy them both.
‘OK. I’ll help you,’ she said.
Frank raised an eyebrow. ‘Now you’re talking sense.’
‘Ernest really does have the cup. I gave it back after I cleaned it.’
Frank observed her. His eyes narrowed. ‘If you’re lying—’
‘I’m not,’ she said quickly. ‘He has it. Locked away, I think. He’s waiting for the right moment to add it to the auction.’ It was a risk, but she felt sure Ernest would rather the cup stayed with Christina than ended up in Frank’s control.
In the silence that followed the fire crackled. Frank studied her face.
At last, he gave a curt nod. ‘Fine.’
He stepped backward to the door, then paused with his hand on the frame.
‘Word of advice,’ he said. ‘Grow a spine before this house of cards comes down. Might be the only thing that saves you.’
Then he was gone, leaving the door ajar, the air unsettled.
Christina stood by the fire, her heart drumming fast but steady. She had grown a spine.
And for the first time since she could remember, she wasn’t thinking about avoiding conflict.
She was thinking about strategy.
Two hours later, and the night was restless – clouds scudding across a fractured moon. The wind had risen with the tide, threading through the Devon fields in long, steady gusts that sent uneasy shivers through the hedgerows.
Christina eased the car onto the sweeping drive, flanked on either side by an avenue of ancient horse chestnuts. Hamish was at an off-site and was staying overnight. Elspeth was tucked up at school. The stars had aligned.
The tarmac glistened faintly with moisture.
She took the first bend too fast – out of habit, not recklessness – the tyres sliding on the wet surface before she steadied them, her breath tight in her throat.
A pair of deer – startled by her approach – froze at the treeline, then bounded soundlessly into shadows.
The dark windows and steep gables of Brambleton Manor loomed ahead, silhouetted against the silvered night like a stately beast crouched on the crest of the hill.
She slowed the car. She could just make out the sheen of the lake below the hill, still and black, the water reflecting the moon like a shard of polished steel.
Christina switched off the headlights and let the car roll to a hush.
The engine ticked as it cooled. She scanned the house searching for fingers of light peeping out from the cracks in the shutters.
Nothing. Good. She stepped out into the night, her boots slapping loudly against the damp tarmac before muffling in the grass.
She had twisted her hair into a knot beneath a black beanie hat, and wore dark jeans, a thick navy jumper, and her old, waxed jacket – familiar armour that smelled of bonfire smoke and winter walks.
The air was cool and alive with scent: cut grass mixed with the sharp greenness of nettles.
Her heart thudded – not from fear, but from something more coiled. Contained. A heat that had been simmering under the surface for too long. She wouldn’t flinch – not at the thought of Ernest’s voice, nor at Frank’s warnings; she wouldn’t let them manipulate her anymore.
The house towered ahead – its windows blank, its walls partially smothered by Virginia creeper like a haphazardly thrown rug.
She shifted the canvas bag on her shoulder and moved around the side, past the wild tangle of rhododendrons, their leaves slick and leathery against her arm as she pushed through.
Ki-kok.
Her heart stopped, and then she jumped as a startled pheasant clattered from a tree branch where it had been roosting, flapping off into the night.