Chapter 45
Chapter Forty-Five
The taxi curved up through the quiet, tree-lined streets of Hampstead, far from the city’s noise and chaos.
Fern looked out of the window, watching the houses get bigger and further apart.
Walled-in worlds with private driveways and iron gates and names instead of numbers.
The driver made a sharp turn off the main road and onto a narrow gravel track that curved through woodland.
After about half a mile, the trees opened up, and the car came slowly to a stop before a set of wrought-iron gates flanked by towering stone pillars.
‘Is this it?’ Daniel asked, peering out of the window.
Fern checked the address. ‘Yeah. That’s it.’
After they climbed out of the taxi, they walked towards the gates and announced their arrival via the intercom. The gates creaked open and they stepped through.
The driveway was long and snaked through meticulously kept grounds, the manicured lawns rolling out on either side of Fern and Daniel. Ahead, the house was four storeys of pale stone, with a terrace and tall windows.
‘How the other half live,’ Daniel murmured.
‘I still prefer our place. I bet they don’t have a moose’s head hanging over the bed.’ Fern gave him a lopsided grin.
‘Our?’ Daniel had picked up on her choice of word.
‘I like that.’ He smiled, holding her gaze as they carried on walking.
Up ahead a black Jaguar was parked beside a stone fountain, water trickling peacefully over carved cherubs.
A low, rhythmic thumping drew their eyes skyward where they could see a sleek black helicopter was descending at the back of the house.
Daniel stepped beside her, watching. ‘You thinking what I’m thinking?’
‘Alistair arriving in style after whatever meetings he had.’
They climbed the wide stone steps towards the massive double doors. Before they could knock, the left door swung open silently. A butler stood there in a dark suit. ‘Fern and Daniel,’ the man said, as though he were announcing royalty. ‘Please come in. Alistair is expecting you.’
The entrance hall of Nathaniel’s house was absurdly elegant.
Sunlight streamed in through stained-glass windows, pooling across the polished wooden floor.
A grand piano sat casually in one corner, and framed sheet music lined the walls, some pristine, some crumpled and scribbled on in bursts of inspiration.
They followed the butler into a living room that somehow managed to outdo the entrance hall. There was another grand piano and floor to-ceiling windows, which showcased immaculate gardens and the helicopter they had just seen arriving.
Alistair was walking across the lawn and it wasn’t long before he stepped into the living room.
‘Fern,’ he said smoothly, flashing a smile.
‘Daniel. Welcome.’ He was dressed casually in navy chinos, a soft grey jumper and loafers.
He propped his cane against the wall before taking a seat opposite them.
‘Thanks for seeing us,’ Fern said. ‘What a beautiful home this is.’
‘Now,’ Alistair said lightly. ‘Tell me why you’re here. A vinyl, was it?’
Fern pulled a plastic sleeve from her bag. Inside were high-resolution photographs of the record, label, sleeve and serial number. She slid them across the table. ‘We didn’t think it was wise to bring the original,’ she said, watching Alistair closely.
He adjusted his glasses, leaned forward and took his time studying the images. ‘Well,’ he said finally, ‘the serial number certainly suggests this is the first pressing of Nathaniel’s debut track…’
Before Alistair could continue there was the sound of slow tapping approaching from the hallway.
The door opened, and in stepped Nathaniel Loring.
Fern and Daniel turned in his direction. Even now, clearly very frail and unwell, the man had presence. He was tall and elegant, with white hair combed back and skin that had once glowed under stage lights but now looked paper-thin. He leaned on a carved walking stick, his movements careful.
‘Who have we here?’ he asked, looking towards Alistair.
Fern noticed Alistair looked uncomfortable.
‘Nathaniel,’ Alistair said, rising a little too quickly. ‘These are antique dealers, and they’ve found something rather special.’
Fern took her chance to expand on Alistair’s all-too-brief introduction. ‘Mr. Loring. I’m Fern and I own No. 17 Curiosity Lane on Puffin Island. I’m Matilda Hartley’s great-niece.’
The effect was instant. Nathaniel froze. His eyes locked on hers, then flicked to Alistair. ‘Matilda?’ he repeated quietly, almost to himself.
‘We found a vinyl in the shop,’ Fern continued.
‘What seems to be your very first pressing, according to the serial number. We couldn’t help but look into your past and were shocked to find that you, Matilda and Alistair here all went to college together.
’ She looked towards Alistair, who had paled, before turning back to Nathaniel.
‘Can you tell me about her? Did you gift the vinyl to her?’
Glancing at Alistair, Nathaniel crossed the room and lowered himself into a nearby armchair. Fern noticed his hands were trembling slightly as he set the cane aside.
‘As you said, we went to college together,’ he said. ‘Matilda was … clever. Bright. Musical. Wild. I gave her that record as a thank-you for her friendship. That’s all there was to it. She was one of the first to hear it. I always wondered if she’d kept it.’
Fern tilted her head. ‘Did you not stay in touch?’
Nathaniel looked at Alistair again. His expression darkened slightly. ‘No, I’m afraid we lost contact.’
Fern said, ‘She passed away very recently.’
A beat passed.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Nathaniel said. ‘Matilda was unforgettable.’
‘Yes, there is certainly someone who doesn’t want us to forget her,’ added Fern, watching him closely.
Nathaniel turned to Alistair. There was a flicker of something on his face – displeasure, maybe, or suspicion.
‘Is that so?’
Fern took her chance. ‘A wedding dress turned up at the shop with a cryptic note.’
Nathaniel’s brow lifted. ‘A note?’
She nodded. ‘It said, “Find the groom”.’
Alistair shifted uncomfortably.
‘It was my great-aunt’s dress,’ Fern continued. ‘Matilda’s. We confirmed it with the designer, Eliza Valentine. She keeps records.’
Daniel stepped in, voice casual but steady. ‘Which means, by process of elimination … you’re the groom we’re looking for, Mr Loring.’
‘We were hoping you could help us understand why someone would want us to find you now,’ Fern said, her tone light but her words landing with precision.
Nathaniel remained silent, his expression unreadable.
‘We appreciate this is personal,’ Daniel said, attempting to soften the edges, ‘but we’ve been told the wedding was called off on Christmas Eve morning.’
‘That’s enough,’ Alistair cut in, sitting forward sharply. ‘You can’t just come in here asking these kinds of questions.’
‘You invited us,’ Fern pointed out, holding her own. ‘Since Matilda passed, weird things have been happening. The dress, the note … and now we’ve had a break-in.’
Alistair gave a short, incredulous laugh. ‘What are you implying?’
‘That someone’s still digging around in her life,’ Fern said. ‘Someone who wants the past made present.’
Nathaniel’s eyes darkened.
‘The record you gave Matilda,’ she continued, ‘had a message engraved on it, saying: I owe you everything. What did that mean?’
Still no answer.
‘Why did you leave her?’ she asked, quiet but direct. ‘What happened that fateful morning? Did she find out something? Something you were hiding? Everyone we’ve spoken to doesn’t believe the claim that she was unfaithful.’
Alistair stood abruptly. ‘Okay, that’s enough. I’m not letting this turn into some kind of interrogation.’
Fern didn’t move, her gaze locked on Nathaniel. ‘Why didn’t you marry her?’
‘That record wasn’t just sentimental, was it? You felt guilty. Because she didn’t cheat, did she? That was just the story that you put out,’ Daniel pressed.
Fern stepped in again. ‘Did you steal her composition?’
That was it. Alistair’s face flushed, and he jabbed a hand towards the door. ‘Please leave. Now.’
Fern and Daniel stood slowly. No big dramatic exit, no shouting match. As they walked out, Fern could feel there was more. They weren’t finished with this conversation. Not even close.
‘What do you make of that?” asked Daniel once they were outside and heading back up the drive.
‘Guilty as hell.’
‘I agree.’